


Silk, Cognac, and Cigars

by L_M_Biggs



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Sexual Assault, Canon-Typical Violence, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, May/December Relationship, Mentions of conversion therapy, Nonbinary!Klinger, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 70
Words: 182,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25525930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_M_Biggs/pseuds/L_M_Biggs
Summary: Major Charles Emerson Winchester III has spent his life with shields carefully in place, hiding what he is and how he feels behind a facade of politeness and high breeding. Corporal Maxwell Klinger is the exact opposite in every way, wearing what he is as armor so that it cannot be used against him. In Korea, Charles learns that there is little comfort he can take while hiding himself away, and that perhaps the only thing that will make this hell worth living through is recognizing kinship where he can.(Written with the idea that Charles was transferred to the 4077th at the Pilot, instead of in Season 6.)
Relationships: Maxwell Klinger/Charles Emerson Winchester III
Comments: 108
Kudos: 42





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stateofintegrity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/gifts).



> This work is a gift to stateofintegrity, who I have never spoken to once, but am grateful for their numerous works for this pairing.
> 
> As such, some of the incidents are directly inspired by the work that they have done, and might lean or reflect that a bit simply because I have binged their entire bibliography of this ship within the last three days.

Major Charles Emerson Winchester III had never seen such rotten conditions. The smell was the first thing that hit him. The scent of blood mingled with fetid water and mud and whatever rotten scraps of food the mess tent had thrown out. 

What was worse was his quarters. 

Chocked full of people even before he had moved in, with Pierce, McIntyre, Burns, and Jones all crammed inside, Charles’ own bed seemed to barely fit within. And then the Corporal that was assigned to help him move in arrived with his luggage. The man was slender, all wiry grace as he hefted Charles’ trunk of belongings, his dark skin radiated warmth, and Charles couldn’t help but freeze at the sight of the simple cotton skirt and blouse the man wore. A woman’s dress. Only one type of man was in the Army, or even back home in the states, that wore such clothing.

“Where do you want it sir?” The man asked, sounding annoyed at being dragged away from his other duties.

“Back in Tokyo.” Charles sniped, before he could stop himself, scowling at the thought of moving _here_ , despite the pleasant sight before him.

“Easy, Major, I have a delousing appointment.” The man said, his Midwestern accent drawing out “delous-zing” with a sneer at the newest Swamp occupant. He was sharp, and quick and Charles was taken aback. 

“Just… Anywhere.” Charles stumbled over himself for a moment, straightening as the man dropped the trunk of belongings onto Charles’… cot. Not a bed. A cot.

When he left the room, Charles looked at the other three surgeons in the room. 

“Who was that…” He couldn’t think of anything that wouldn’t give him away, so he settled on something derogatory that felt vile on his tongue, but would keep his tent mates safely in the dark. “Creature?”

“Corporal Klinger, the first man to kill a caribou with a beaded purse,” Captain Pierce grinned widely up at him and Charles sighed.

“A _degenerate _,” Burns said. “He’s a disgrace to this man’s army.”__

__“Oh, I don’t know, he seems to be right on par with everyone else dragged into this sorry police action,” Charles huffed, sitting down across from Burns and eyeing up the man cautiously. “At least he’s doing something in an attempt to get out of here.”_ _

__Burns scowled, his lips thinned out to nothing as he stared at Charles, but Charles decided to ignore him, turning to begin unpacking his things._ _

__“What, are you some sort of deserter?”_ _

__“Major Burns,” Charles turned, his voice amiable, even as his expression remained stormy. “I am in this man’s army only so long as it takes my family to get me _out_ of it. I hardly deserve these deplorable conditions, and I _certainly _don’t deserve your snide treatment when I could buy and sell you six times over back in the states.”___ _

___Burns sneered. “Well we’re not in the states _fella _, we’re in the U.S. Army, and that’s that.”___ _ _

_____“Oh, witty, Frank, very witty.” Pierce grinned. “I think we’re going to like you, Chuckles.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Charles,” Charles corrected, scowling at the other two swamp rats. “And heaven forbid that I remain here long enough that you _like _me.”___ _ _ _ _

_______“Oh, I see how it is,” Burns said, smirking at Charles in a way that made the hair on the back of his head stand up. “You’re _just _like Corporal Klinger, even with the rank.”___ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________“I _beg _your pardon?” Charles stared at the man, feeling his heart lodged in his throat as if it was trying to strangle him.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________“Deserters, the both of you. Instead of running a scheme to get out, you’re going to try and _buy _your way out. Well lemme tell you something, _fella _, I’m going to keep you here if it’s the last thing I do.”_____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______________“So you’re saying,” Charles’ eyes narrowed. “I’ll be sent home over your dead body?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______________“ _Precisely _,” Burns’ lips curled smugly.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________“Well then,” Charles said, his voice still amiable and polite, years of high society training keeping him from losing his temper. “I suppose it’s a good thing that I’m a doctor, sworn to do no harm.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

* * *

_________________Charles was the best surgeon, technically, that was in the M*A*S*H* unit currently, and Frank Burns, despite his rank and sheer (unearned, in Charles’ opinion) ego, was clearly an inferior surgeon. Even with Charles’ own distraction every five minutes with Corporal Klinger coming in, wearing a white nurses’ uniform, complete with hat and costume jewelry earrings. If Charles hadn’t known any better, with the sterile white surgical mask over his face, Klinger could easily have been mistaken for a very flat-chested woman._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________“Where do you want ‘em?” The Corporal asked the room at large, holding the litter with wiry arms, Private Straminsky trailing behind him with the other end of it. He was very thin, army rations had clearly not treated him well, but he was all whipcord muscle it seemed beneath it all._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________“Ideally? Back at my practice in Maine, but I’ll take them right over there in two minutes.” Pierce said as he shucked his gloves. “Close for me.” He told Nurse Able and Charles watched as Klinger went to place the litter down and assisted Straminsky in moving the wounded soldier onto on the indicated operating table, the two transferring the patient easily before leaving to continue their duties, the clear click of Klinger’s high heels echoing in a deafening manner in Charles’ ears._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________He had been informed, in not so many words, that Klinger’s transvestism was a dodge. One he had been continuing since before he was reluctantly drafted into the army. He was not a homosexual, as McIntyre and Pierce had reassured him._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________A pity. As pretty as Klinger was, Charles could picture him being a smash among some of the old Harvard alumni that Charles had socialized with. Secretly, without their families knowing that they had taken quiet solace in one another’s presence. Nothing untoward had ever happened at these gatherings, they weren’t, after all, in California, but it was enough to know that they had all made it back home, were alive and not disowned by their respective families._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________The click of heels returned, along with new wounded, and Charles glanced briefly up from his patient as Colonel Blake claimed the next wounded that Klinger and Straminsky had brought in. Charles caught sight of the crinkle at the corner of Klinger’s eyes, a dazzling smile no doubt beneath his mask at Blake’s comment of, “hold the onions”. He was pretty, Charles decided as he stared at Klinger briefly before refocusing on his patient. Masculine and hairy, the man was Lebanese it was hardly a surprise, but he was slender and his hips were narrow along with his shoulders and his height, even with heels, made him seem absolutely doll-like._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________“Wanna play a little Doctor after we’re finished?” Charles can hear Pierce’s lechery from the other table, and he can practically hear Lieutenant “Dish’s” response. _How wonderful it must be to be Captain Benjamin Franklin Pierce,_ he thought to himself, _with the ease of picking up a nurse like a piece of scrap paper or a penny off the sidewalk._ While Charles himself had spent his time in the army, and even before that after his graduation from Harvard, in self-imposed celibacy in order to protect not only his reputation here, in the war, but back home. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________A dishonorable discharge would ruin him, and the risk was too great here, with Frank Burns and Margaret Houlihan’s snipes and barbs and GI tendencies, to let his guard down in the way his comrades could so easily._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________“I don’t want a kelly clamp!” Burns’ voice broke through the air and Charles silently pitied the nurse (Ginny? No, Ginger, that was it) at his table._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________“But that’s what you asked for-”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________“Well, give me what I want, not what I ask for!” Burns snapped._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_________________“She’s not a mind reader, Major Burns.” Charles kept his voice even, knowing that it would grate on the high strung surgeon’s nerves all the more. “If she was then she certainly wouldn’t be working _here _.”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“Ginger, put a clamp on his mouth!” Pierce shouted, setting off another volley of bickering between the surgeons that Charles did his best to tune out._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________When he heard the click of Klinger’s heels returning, with another litter, he immediately shucked out of his gloves._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“I’ll take him.” Charles called out, before Klinger could ask, and gestured to the table he wanted to use next._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“Major,” Klinger nodded, and when Charles glanced down he couldn’t help the fluttering in his chest at the sight of Klinger’s stockings and the simple white heels he wore. “Got something to say, Major?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“Your seams aren’t straight.” Was all Charles could get out. “Perhaps you should try painting them on.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“I was in a hurry, Major, you try to look this good when you’ve got five minutes of prep.” Klinger smirked beneath the mask, Charles could tell, and he hardly could help himself from giving Klinger another brief sweep of his eyes._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“Certainly I don’t have your taste.” Charles said, turning back to his patient._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“You should see him in green.” Blake said, giving a low whistle. “He’s somethin’ else in that green satin job.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“Colonel, please, I blush.” Klinger said as he walked out with Straminsky to retrieve another patient, the clicking of his heels echoing in Charles’ mind long after he was out of earshot._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

* * *

___________________“You want to raffle off a _nurse_?” McIntyre said just as Charles entered the tent._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“ _What_?” Charles laughed dryly, staring at the two with sharp eyes._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“It’s for a good cause, Chuckles, to send Ho Jon to college back in the states.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“Surely you jest?” Charles sat down. “What woman in this camp has such low, degraded self image that she’d allow herself to be raffled off like a Kewpie doll at a two-bit carnival?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“For a pass to Tokyo? We could probably get Klinger to go.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________A scoff escaped him, “Oh _really_?” Charles ignored the way his chest tightened at the thought. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“Nah, nah, we gotta get only the best. And second to Hot Lips Houlihan, there can only be one.” Hawkeye grinned as a thought occurred to him, and Charles couldn’t help but sigh through his nose._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“Alright, to prevent you from harassing me later,” He pulled his wallet from his fatigues, passing Hawkeye a ten dollar bill of army scrip to the man. “For Ho Jon’s raffle. Do not expect me to attend this… dog and pony show.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“Oh come on, Charles, you don’t even know who we’re going to raffle off, you might _want_ to win.” Hawkeye grinned. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“Hardly,” Charles scoffed. “I have high standards.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“To go with his high brow.” McIntyre said. “Come on, Hawk, let’s go to the Colonel, get those passes.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________Left alone in the Swamp, Charles sighed as he placed his Mozart record on. He usually drank his own cognac, but the bottle was low and he was sure that Pierce wouldn’t mind him drinking some of the turpentine they called gin. He had just poured himself a glass in the least filthy gin glass when the door opened and Frank Burns arrived._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“Oh, look at you, a week here and you’ve already become one of them.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________Charles huffed a laugh. “ _Hardly_ , I am neither one of them nor one of you and Major Houlihan.” He sat in his chair beside his cot, closing his eyes and listening to Mozart, thinking of his office back home, dark wood and bright streaming sunlight filtering through the ivy and roses climbing up the windows. “And soon I won’t even be here at all, I’ll be back in Tokyo, and then the states.” Another sip. “Away from this hell, and _you_.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________Burns’ hackles raised, but Charles tuned out whatever poorly thought out snipes the man could conjure up, recreating his office as it existed in his memory._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

* * *

___________________“Major?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________Charles looked up from his book, blinking at the sight of Corporal Klinger standing, in a pink housecoat and fuzzy slippers to match, his hair up in pincurls and a blue hairnet. He looked… Domestic. It was cute in a strange way that Charles had never considered before._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“I thought you were at Ho Jon’s party.” Klinger stuttered out, his eyes shifting as he stepped back towards the door._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“That hardly explains why you’re here, Corporal.” Charles pointed out, marking his page in the book and putting it down, watching Klinger curiously._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“… I steal Major Burns’ razor to shave my legs.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________It was shocking, a blatant invasion of space and privacy, something that Charles should report._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________Instead he laughed at the memory of Burns complaining just that morning that his razors keep becoming dull far too soon, even though he quite literally kept them under lock and key. Charles had questioned how cheap the razors were, mostly to rub salt into the wounds, but he could never imagine that _Klinger_ was the reason._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“You horrible, terrible, wonderful little creature.” Charles laughed. “But how do you get the key?” He asked, confused._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________Klinger hesitated, before pulling out a set of lockpicks. “Come on, I grew up on the bad side of Toledo, if I can’t open up Major Burns’ little safe, I don’t deserve to go home.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“Show me,” Charles said with a smile, putting his feet down with a solid thunk on the floor, turning and resting his elbows on his knees as Klinger grabbed Burns’ small lockbox. Deft fingers worked the picks into the lock and within seconds the lid sprung open and Klinger was smirking as he ignored the pile of Burns’ military scrip and went straight for his razor. He locked the box again, slid it into place neatly, and then turned to leave._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“You walk to the showers to shave?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“Don’t wanna get caught in here doing it, I’d never hear the end from Hawkeye or Trapper.” Klinger fiddled with the handle of the razor, looking clearly uncomfortable._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“And all of this… For a dodge to get out of the army?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________Klinger froze, staring at Charles before he cleared his throat. “Well… You know I grew up in a rough town. Things were pretty rough for me even before I was drafted, what with the sewing and stuff. I’d sew dresses for my sister and her girlfriends, and sometimes I’d… Try them on myself. If some of them were my size.” Klinger grinned nervously. “Learned how to throw a punch pretty hard pretty young.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“In high heels no less,” Charles didn’t know what to make of it, but there was a small… Relief. “Corporal?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________Klinger turned back from where he was trying to leave once more. “Major?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________“I’m sure you hear this quite often. But with your current get up, and the light hitting you just right, you remind me of my maiden aunt.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________Klinger blinked those big, dark eyes at him, before he grinned. “Most men who want to get into my bloomers say I remind them of their mothers.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________Charles gave his own smug, closed-lipped smile, and Klinger gave a brief salute before he turned and left, Burns’ razor in hand._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

___________________Perhaps… Charles wasn’t as alone in the 4077th as he thought he was._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	2. Chief Surgeon Who?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Pierce promoted to Chief Surgeon, Charles bows out of attending the party for less than gentlemanly reasons.

Frank Burns’ chicken pecking at the typewriter hardly did anything to help Charles’ exhausted headache as he sat in the Swamp. They had completed a full 48 hours of surgery and everyone was exhausted. Jones was off with Ginger, likely getting a rubdown that Pierce and McIntyre would be jealous of, the two of them sitting drinking their turpentine after having struck out with the equally exhausted nurses.

“You’re quite a guy in here,” Pierce said as he read over Burns’ form letter. “You make Superman look like a fairy.”

“What sort of drivel has Major Burns’ insipid mind come up with?” Charles sighed, closing his eyes and praying for sleep, even as he knew that he would get none, not when adrenaline and his last cup of coffee still raced through his veins.

“Well, the fighting here goes on, but I must go along with MacArthur and agree that the beginning of the end is in sight.” Pierce read aloud, dropping the letter on the pile. 

“I had built up a pretty good practice of my own before I got drafted and I’m not going to let those people forget me!” Burns sniped and Charles scoffed. “Oh come off it, you were working in a _hospital_.”

“I was _Chief_ of Thoracic Surgery in Boston General,” Charles scoffed. “And you were a small town doctor doing petty little things like tonsillectomies and checking the elderly for indigestion.”

“I am _ranking_ surgeon here!” Burns sputtered, standing upright.

“You do not outrank _me_ ,” Charles sneered back.

“No, I am more rank than all of everyone here, and even with all of that stench at least I don’t worry about billing my patients even as they lay dying on my table.” Pierce snapped, glaring at them. 

“How _dare_ you!” Burns huffed, standing up. “We’ll just see what Colonel Blake has to say about this!”

“Run along to mother, Major Burns,” Charles smirked. “I’m sure that Colonel Blake will do something.” Burns grumbled and stuck his tongue out at the tent at large. Once the door had swung closed, Charles mumbled, “Even if that something is pour himself a drink.”

* * *

“He made _Pierce_ chief surgeon!” Burns’ tantrum was enough to rattle the tent. Jones was long gone for his shift in O.R., when Burns had first returned he had made enough of a ruckus that the other surgeon was more than willing to abandon Charles to Burns.

“Of course he did,” Charles said simply. “I wouldn’t let you operate on my sister’s horses back home, much less entrust you as chief surgeon.”

“Why aren’t _you_ offended?” Burns asked, scowling. “You and your ego.”

“Because, Major Burns,” Charles drawled out. “This place is just not worth my energy. I work and then I rest. I like my workload as it is, I do not want the additional duties that being Chief Surgeon would give me.”

Burns scowled, but couldn’t argue with that. 

“Major!” Klinger’s voice called out, and both Majors turned.

“Oh, what do you want?” Burns sneered, glaring at Klinger. 

“Not you,” Klinger scowled, turning to Charles. “Major, can we use your record player for the party tomorrow night?”

“Absolutely not,” Charles said quickly, scowling. “Knowing how rowdy those parties get, I’ll never see it again.”

“Come on, I’ll make sure it gets back,” Klinger wheedled. “I’ll even trade you!”

“Trade?”

He held up a key, “The key to my tent, and the Klinger Collection therein, my pride and joy.”

Despite the way his heart pounded at the thought, he forced his voice to remain even, “I have no use for it, not my size.” 

“Something happens to your record player and you can do whatever you want to the Klinger Collection.”

“That is how certain you are that you can ensure the record player’s safety?”

“Of course!” Klinger grinned broadly. “Come on, Major.”

Charles sighed and waved his hand. “Fine, fine, but you can only take it tomorrow night right before the party, if I must be left without music for the night, I at least want to enjoy it tonight.”

“Thank you, Major, your generosity knows no bounds.” Klinger’s sarcasm made Charles’ lips curl into a smile that he couldn’t resist, and he could see a smirk on Klinger’s lips as the other man left.

“Why do you let that _thing_ bargain with you?”

“Because he amuses me.” Charles says simply as the door swung shut. “Boredom is one of the worst things we have to combat here. And Klinger is anything but boring.”

“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you _liked_ him.” Burns sneered, and Charles turned his own sharp eyes to the man.

“Many people in camp like Klinger. Except you and Major Houlihan.” He leaned back in his chair, and put on his record player, determined to enjoy it while he still had it. “There’s no accounting for taste.”

* * *

It was a gross invasion of privacy, he knew, but it was difficult to resist.

The Klinger Collection was… Something else. Klinger’s sewing machine in the corner was littered with scraps of fabric and other haberdashery, the mannequin was slightly too big for Klinger’s slender form, shucked into the side of the tent. Currently it wore a white lace brassier and a standard issue helmet. But what Charles was looking for was something green that Henry Blake had mentioned before, but Charles had never seen.

Green satin was easy to find amongst all the clothes. They were organized by colour, not by fabric or type, and Charles ran his fingers idly over the rainbow of fabric, stopping at the section of green to sort through the items. 

It was a green satin sheath dress, high in the front, but cut low in the back. Simple, but classic and elegant. Charles was certain that he could imagine Klinger’s shoulder blades in the dress, the way it would sit on his slim waist and narrow hips. If he wore his black heels and stockings with it he’d be a sight to remember. 

Charles put the dress back after a moment and then pulled out another, a black long-sleeved dress, funeral attire, or something heralding Coco Chanel. It was clearly not purchased but made, with the neat stitches on the inside clearly done by hand in places where alterations would have been done if the gown had been purchased, not sewn.

The white nurses’ uniform was in its place, and Charles felt a small thrill in his chest as he allowed himself a brief fantasy of running his own practice, something he had ribbed Burns on to no end, but had a certain charming appeal. Especially in his fantasy where Klinger was his receptionist and nurse, assisting him with patients and paperwork as he did now. Perhaps even in this fantasy they could play a little “Doctor” as Pierce called it.

When his mind conjured up the sight of Klinger’s long legs, the white fabric of the uniform scrunched up about his waist, Charles shoved the dress back into place, his heart pounding. He hadn’t allowed himself such thoughts in years, certainly not since his boarding school days, when boys were free to explore and experiment, if only to sit back and realize that their feelings and urges were not to be directed to anything other than the fairer sex.

And while Klinger had all of the appropriate accouterments of a woman, he certainly was not one, and there was no way that Charles could pass him off as one in Boston, certainly not amongst his family and coworkers and friends. Or what passed as friends. If he brought Klinger back… He didn’t doubt that they would take the opportunity to ruin him.

But… Here… In Korea… No one knew him _here_. And Klinger was… If not a friend, then at least a passable verbal sparring partner.

He would take what he could get, even if it took a bit of horse trading.


	3. Bananas, Crackers, and Nuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierce is trying to get some R and R, and Charles rankles at a psychiatrist in the camp.

Charles was no stranger to gossip. Gossip was the foundation of high society, the national pass-time of the ultra wealthy that he had grown up with. He was familiar with being the subject of such rumors. 

He had dated women only often enough that his family and other interested parties would speak about the girls, and how fleeting the affairs were. How they were quite lovely, but just not the right match for him. Beautiful young women who were happy to go to a few nice dinners, maybe attend the symphony with him if they proved amiable. 

He was also aware of less than generous rumors. That he was a bore, an egotistical snob with a god complex. 

Even the rumors floating around the 4077th, calling him frigid and cruel and careless towards his patients, towards everyone, shouldn’t have cut as deep as they did. After all, he had certainly heard worse. 

The only one who didn’t seem to listen and agree with those rumors was Klinger. 

It shouldn’t have been such a relief, afterall. The local madman liked him, the local _transvestite_. What could possibly comfort him about that, when he was struggling to remain hidden from the prying eyes of his tent mates. Burns was too oblivious to others, too consumed with his own torrid affair with Houlihan to notice anything else, which was a relief, but Pierce and McIntyre? They _made_ Charles’ personal life their business out of pure boredom. 

The deluge of bodies that had managed to vanish away a Tuesday, then Wednesday, then Thursday, had been a relief to their prying and the careless gossip that Charles overheard frequently about camp. 

“You hear about Captain Pierce?” Klinger asked as he sat on Charles’ bed, darning some socks for the Major. It was a favor that Charles had asked Klinger to do, not expecting him to take him up on it. He watched the way Klinger carefully wove the bright pink thread through the olive drab of the sock, forming a strange new patch in the fabric. 

“What about Captain Pierce?” Charles sighed, rubbing at his own eyes.

“He had some liver at lunch yesterday, and he claimed it was from that North Korean that died.”

“Was it?”

“Nah, he had Radar pick some up from a Korean butcher up the road.”

“And he considered _that_ a wise decision?”

“I think he’s just desperate to get out of here for some R and R, sir.” Klinger said simply, shrugging as he continued his small, menial task. They remained quietly together in the Swamp, Charles enjoying the scent of Klinger’s cologne (something with a heady spice and the citrus of oranges in it) and the quiet companionship that the Corporal offered. Usually the both of them couldn’t help but shoot off their mouths, trading snipes and barbs with others and one another. But this was comfortable, despite how unusual it was. “Hey, you got some Frankie Trumbauer in there?” Klinger asked, gesturing with his busy hands at the record player.

“Frankie _who_?”

“Before your time, huh?” Klinger asked with a sly smirk. “What about Cab Calloway?”

“ _Cad_ Calloway?”

“No, _Cab_ , like hailing a cab.”

“I certainly have never listened to these musicians. If they can even be called that.”

“Come on, Major, it’s jazz! Classic jazz!”

“I assure you, Corporal, there is no such thing as _classic_ jazz. There is _classical_ music and _jazz_ music, but not both.”

Klinger rolled his eyes and crossed his legs at the knee, leaning back in his chair. “Oh come off it, Major, just because something isn’t played in… In… Carnegie Hall! Doesn’t mean that it’s not proper music!”

“Corporal-”

“Captain Pierce?” A new voice, one that neither of them had heard before, interrupted them, and they both jumped. He was a short man, but he had a stern face that showed he was a GI doctor of some form or another. “Captain Sherman.”

“Ah, Captain Pierce isn’t here,” Charles said simply. “He’s at the latrines at the moment, with a full military escort if I recall correctly.” Captain Sherman’s eyes lingered on Charles, then slid over to Klinger, where the man was standing and smoothing out his skirt. 

“I’m here to evaluate Captain Pierce.” Sherman said, and Charles’ eyes flickered to Klinger, who shrugged, clearly not knowing anything about this. 

“Well, Doctor, we’ll leave you to it.” Charles said, standing up, but unable to move until Klinger had left first. Some small part of him still thought of it as chivalry.

“I’ll come back later.” Klinger said simply, passing over the darned sock he had been working on. “Do the other sock.” 

“The other sock is fine.”

“Well then I’ll come back later to get some of your good booze, Major.” Klinger smirked, leaving the tent, and in doing so abandoning Charles to the cool, calculating eyes of Captain Sherman.

Charles always felt nervous around psychiatrists, ever since his family had sent him to psychotherapy after he had confided a tryst with one of his boyhood friends at boarding school, he had learned that they were always reporting back to someone. In the army, where it was everyone’s job to report to those higher up than them, it was this man’s job to find ways to cause wrath and ruin to anyone else here. 

He gave a small smile to the man, clearing his throat as Captain Sherman watched him with that same steady, unblinking gaze. “And… What was that?”

“That was Corporal Klinger,” Charles said. “He’s hoping for a section 8, you can expect a visit from him later.”

“A… homosexual?”

“Well, from the letters he gets from Laverne and how… Raunchy… They get, I assume not.” He refused to think about how Klinger had smiled at the letter he had most recently got from Laverne. Charles was never privy to the contents, they weren’t that close of friends, but his own overactive imagination could supply enough. 

“I see.” The Captain smirked. “If he really was a homosexual, I could get him out of here in two shakes of a nurse’s tail.”

Charles froze at that, his face trapped in the polite moue of interest that he had been well trained to maintain through his life. Part of him wanted to open his mouth and confess, to spill out about his own homosexuality if it would _only_ get him back to the states, discharged from the army.

But where would that leave him? With a black mark that would follow him into his civilian life. His family would be disgraced. He would return not the war hero that they wanted, but a blight to be gotten rid of as quickly as they possibly could. He’d lose his job, most likely, his grandmother’s house where he lived, any inheritance left to him.

No. He’d have to remain quiet. 

“I’ll go retrieve Captain Pierce for you.”

“Thank you, Major.”

* * *

“Captain, for me to do my job, I’ve got to know what’s bothering you, if anything.” Captain Sherman’s voice was calm and level and Charles listened outside the tent as he spoke to Pierce. “So the sooner you trust me, the sooner I’m gonna be able to help you.”

“Oh, I trust you. Why wouldn’t I trust you?” Pierce’s voice was just as even, if a touch fast, and Winchester quietly wondered why he was worried.

“That’s a very healthy attitude.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“To be sure.”

The back and forth was something that made Charles roll his eyes. Both attempting to be polite.

“Right.” Sherman said, after a hesitation.

“Wrong.” Pierce shot back, quickly.

“Beg your pardon?” Sherman’s voice had some confusion in it.

“Oh, I was just associating freely, I thought you’d like that.”

A long pause. “Fine.”

Pierce shot back quickly, “and dandy.”

The silence that followed made what was left of Charles’ hair stand on end, his wariness of psychiatrists increased at the prospect of an _angry_ psychiatrist in the camp. Pierce might not be the only one sent off for treatment in that case.

“Doctor-” Sherman began, only to be cut off once more by Pierce.

“Nurse.”

“No, no, no.”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

“No.” Sherman voice was firm. “We’re not going to do that.”

“Oh, well, whatever you say,” Charles could hear that *charming* smile in Pierce’s tone. The one that had gotten him out of countless incidents with Blake and others. 

“Pierce-”

“Arrow.” A pause. “Oh, I’m _sorry_.” Pierce laughed. 

“Look. We’re both professional men,” Sherman said, his patience clearly coming to an end. “Let’s get right to it. What’s your problem?”

“I appreciate your forthright approach. I’m gonna level with you.” Pierce said, and Charles leaned closer to the tent, listening intently. “I’m in love.” It took every fiber of Charles’ being to not roll his eyes and whisper a quiet “for God’s sake”.

“That’s nice, I’m sure.” Sherman’s voice had a smile in it. “But, it doesn’t explain your rather erratic behavior of late.”

“Well, maybe it’s because I’m in love and he doesn’t even know I exist.”

Charles’ breath caught and his eyes nearly fell out from how wide they became. He felt as if his heart had stopped. This had to be a trick, a joke, a ruse, something to throw Sherman off the scent.

“Did you say “he”?”

Pierce’s voice turned stern. “I’m relying on your professional discretion.”

“Of course,” A reassuring platitude that Charles knew was a lie even as it was said. “Who is it?”

“Frank Burns.”

Charles rolled his eyes and turned, storming off, making his way towards Colonel Blake. The man was causing chaos in the unit, and with Henry Blake back, Charles knew that he’d have to restore order back in camp. 

At this point, Charles was willing to foot the bill for Pierce and McIntyre’s leave himself if it meant the two of them stopped driving the rest of them insane.

* * *

Klinger was _pouting_. 

It would be adorable, if not for the reason for it.

“Oh come now, Corporal, you can’t be serious.”

“You ruined my one chance back! Why didn’t you tell me he was a psychiatrist!”

“Because he was well prepared to brand you a homosexual and ship you back!”

“So? It’s not the worst thing!”

“What about Laverne? Your family?”

Klinger hesitated, before he sighed and turned away from Charles, throwing one of his dresses against the wall of his tent. “Damnit, Major, I just want to go home!”

“As a homosexual? Tell me, how well would your parents take that? Your sister? Your girl? What about anyone who might possibly hire you? People who rent out apartments? As far as I’m aware, Toledo is not very fond of men who dabble in the love that dare not speak it’s name.”

“I don’t have many options, sir!” Klinger turned sharply. “I don’t have money to buy my way out!”

“I have money.” Charles blurted out, before he could stop himself. 

“Yeah, great for you, sir.”

“Corporal, I…” Charles breathed deeply, scowling down at the other man. “A pact?”

“What?”

“A deal. Between you and I.” Charles held out his hand. “If I find a way out of here. If I find a price tag, a scheme, a connection, _anything_ that gets me out of here… You’ll be on the plane with me.”

“… _Why_ , sir?” Klinger asked, suspicious. 

“Because… Because if I had less pride I would be doing exactly what you are doing.” Charles cleared his throat. “You and I are… We’re very much alike.” He counted his blessings that his hands didn’t tremble. “Loathe I am to admit it.”

Klinger stared at him for a long moment before he spat into his own palm and slapped it into Charles’ own. “Alright, Major.” He gave a firm shape, his grip strong, and Charles felt his heart pounding despite the disgust he felt at the feeling of saliva on his palm. “You got a deal. I won’t do nothing too crazy to jeopardize things, and you’ll get us both out of here?”

“Absolutely.” Charles nodded. “Just… Don’t tell anyone.”

That dark gaze was curious as it peered up at him, but Charles held his own gaze firm. “Okay,” Klinger said, smiling at him. “Our little secret.”

They sat in silence for a few moments before Charles forced himself to look away, clearing his throat. “I should, ah, go back to my tent.”

“Look, Major,” Klinger began, smiling at Charles. “If you want to get away from the gruesome twosome and Major Burns for a bit… You can stay here for a bit.”

Charles blinked at him owlishly, confused at the prospect of being _wanted_ somewhere. “I could… Bring the record player here.”

“Only if you get some records other than the classics.”

Charles scoffed, but his lips curled into a close-lipped smile despite himself. “Charming.” He said, before he could stop himself. “Fine. I will see about getting some of your favorites.”

“I got a long list.” Klinger leaned back, grinning at him. “I’ll give it to Radar.”


	4. The Winchester Tapes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles is settling into the 4077th, and struggling to keep himself away from Corporal Klinger at the same time.

Charles watched Klinger deliver the mail, pausing in his recording of his letter to his parents. He was wearing that cherry hat that Charles was less than fond of, but his outfit, a red gingham dress that any housewife back in the states would be envious of, the flared skirt licking at the man’s knees and thighs as he moved, his heels digging into the dirt floor. He was wasp-waisted today, his slender middle drawn in tighter than usual. Or perhaps he had recently lost weight, Charles was sure that that was the case.

“And two for our high-class society Major Winchester.”

“Corporal, you are really full of it.” Charles said, more out of habit than anything.

“We are what we eat, sir.” Klinger shot back.

Charles smirked right back at Klinger, opening his letter as he stared at the other man. He frowned when he noticed Klinger huffing slightly. “Are you quite alright, Corporal?”

“Yeah, yeah, just been running from tent to tent, gotta get the mail out before I get to KP.”

“Isn’t it O'Reilly’s job to deliver the mail, Corporal?”

“Yes, sir, but I offered to help, he’s trying to help Colonel Blake figure out the new supply requisition forms.”

“Hmm, that makes sense.”

Charles tried not to jump when Pierce began to cackle with delight over his Gilmore girl, sighing when the man turned to him to begin bartering for O.D. in Pierce’s absence. 

“Why not ask Burns, he’ll delight in the extra responsibility,” Charles sighed.

“Because as much as Frank likes responsibility, he’d say no just to say no to me.”

“Then ask Jones.” Charles waved the man off, turning back to his letter, reading that it was from Felix. He scowled at the information that Felix was being discharged due to fainting spells. He’s glad that he didn’t read that to Klinger, or else he was sure that a new scheme would be irresistible to the man. 

Charles picked up his microphone again, breathing deeply before he continued to dictate his message to his parents. He tried not to add anything in about Klinger, feeling that his voice might not hold fast. He’s surprised when it does, just long enough for him to say, “There is a transvestite Corporal with quite colorful taste in clothes, Honoria would like him.”

* * *

“I’ve sent another request to my family.” Charles said as he sat with Klinger in the mess tent. “I have a few avenues that I haven’t yet suggested.”

Klinger sighed as he made a face at his meal, pushing his tray away from himself slightly. “God, I sure hope so. I just read Colonel Blake another “my mother is dying” letter and he didn’t buy it.”

“You should eat,” Charles murmured, pushing the tray back towards Klinger.

“Not feeling hungry,” Klinger wrinkled his nose. “I worked too much KP to look at this food and find it appetizing.” 

“It isn’t appetizing even without having worked KP.” Charles pointed out. “I’ll have my family send me some food. What would you like?”

“Olives.” Klinger said quickly. “Real American ones, not these Chinese ones we get on the black market. And oranges. Even if they’re canned or candied.”

“I will put that in my letter.” Charles nodded. 

“Think they could go to Toledo and get me some hot dogs?”

“I think that might be a bit of a stretch.”

“Worth a shot.” Klinger sighed, resting his hand on his stomach before he stood, stumbling slightly. 

“Corporal?” Charles held his hand out to the other man, who waved him off, breathing slowly for a moment, before he straightened. 

“I’m fine, just tired.” Klinger smiled.

“And malnourished.”

“I’ll be fine, Major, I’m made of strong stuff.”

Charles doubted that even Klinger could survive without food, but he quietly decided not to say anything as he ate as much of his meal as he could stomach. It would take some time for food to come from Boston, what with his missive needing to be sent out and returned, it could be a solid month before he saw any packages delivered to his tent. But there was someplace closer to Korea than Boston. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve and depositing what was left of his tray into the scrap barrel, Charles went to O'Reilly’s office, rapping quickly upon the door. 

“Corporal O’Reilly.”

“Major Winchester, I’ve got Tokyo on the line for you.”

“How…” Charles stared down at O’Reilly. “How did you know that?”

“I just know.” O'Reilly said simply, staring up at him with wide eyes, holding out the phone. “Tokyo.”

Charles accepted the phone and sat down. “Hello, yes? This is Major Charles Winchester, I would like to be directed to the Zakka-Ten next to the Ginza… Yes, I’ll accept the charges.” He looked at O'Reilly, who was watching him quietly with wide eyes. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be, Corporal?”

“Oh, uh no, sir, I’m not needed for anything.”

“Corporal, leave.” Charles snapped, glaring at O'Reilly.

“Oh! Yes, sir!” He scrambled away, and Charles sighed as his call was put through to the Zakka-Ten.

“Yes, hello, this is Major Charles Emerson Winchester III, I would like to place an order to be delivered to Uijeongbu, South Korea.”

“Yes, what would you like?” The man asked, his heavily accented English blessedly clear over the static-free connection.

“You wouldn’t happen to carry any glazed plums, currently?”

“Of course, our hottest item!”

“I would like two orders of that, to be delivered every month if that is possible.”

“Charge extra for a subscription.”

“Of course, yes, yes, may I continue?”

“Go on, Major Winchester.”

Charles rattled off several items that he was sure Klinger would appreciate, and some that he was certain that Klinger would at least find amusing for the novelty of them. By the time he got off the phone he had racked up numerous charges for not only the call, but also the order he had placed with the rather polite man at the Zakka-Ten. Leaning back in his seat he sighed and smiled to himself. The Japanese were nothing if creative with their canning techniques, and their food was delicious regardless of whether or not it was canned, pickled, or fresh. 

He’d put some meat on Klinger’s bones if it bankrupted him.

* * *

Charles was sitting in the ward, monitoring the patients while Nurse Kellye carefully checked their temperature and vitals every so often. Klinger was helping with other duties, such as getting soldiers lifted up enough that they could use the bedpans, changing sheets of those that he had been unable to get to fast enough, and generally bringing some small measure of delight to the men with his nurses’ costume. 

“Nurse, do you know that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen?” One man, fresh out of his sedation, asked as Klinger stood, back to the man. 

Charles felt a thrill of jealousy, replaced with amusement when Klinger turned to face the man. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard that line, _private_?”

The man flustered and cleared his throat, rubbing at his face as he settled back in bed, having been appropriately chastened. 

“Nurse?” Another man called, and Klinger turned alongside Kellye, conditioned just as she was to respond to the call. The men didn’t know the difference, and Klinger might as well have been a male nurse for all the duties he took on to help them. “I gotta.. Um… Go to the latrine.”

“Don’t worry, Kellye, I got this,” Klinger smiled and Charles watched as the man went to sit on the edge of the man’s bed. “Okay, soldier, you got two options. You lean on me as we go to the La Trine?” Klinger gave the word an approximation of a French pronounciation, something that Charles couldn’t help but find charming as he sat listening. “Or do you want me to send Nurse Kellye out and I help you with the bedpan?”

The man hesitated, staring at Klinger. “Um…”

“I won’t be offended, don’t worry.” Klinger gave a grin. “You aren’t my first bedpan and you won’t be my last.”

“Um… Bedpan, I guess.”

“Good choice.” Klinger said, turning to go grab a bedpan from the stack of them by the door, checking it over before he returned to the soldier. “Okay, I’m gonna strip you down just enough that you can do your business. I’ll keep the blanket over you, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Some rustling, and Charles glanced over just to check on the two, before he stood to administer some pain medication to a man who was just about finished with his dose. 

“Alright,” Klinger’s voice was a bit faint, but he cleared his throat. “Now I’m gonna lift your behind and put the bedpan behind you, okay?”

“Okay.”

“One. Two. Three.” Klinger lifted the man with a grunt, then let out a wheeze and stumbled, crashing into the floor, careful to avoid the mess of IV tubing around the beds. 

“Corporal?” Charles asked, grabbing at Klinger, who was shaking and panting. “If you needed help why didn’t you _say_ so?” He chastised as the soldier looked at Klinger with concern in his young face.

“It’s not me, is it? I’m sorry, sir!”

“No, no, it’s fine, soldier.” Charles said as he helped a panting Klinger up, the man wobbling slightly in his heels. “For god’s sake, Klinger, take those heels off!”

“But then I’ll look silly, in stockings without heels.” Klinger panted out, trying to smile even as he obeyed the order.

“Soldier, if you’ll pardon me, we’ll leave you to perform your ablutions and be right back. Call out when you need assistance.”

Charles helped Klinger over to the chair he had occupied before, sitting the man down carefully and glaring at him. 

Klinger avoided his gaze with the look of the guilty.

“When did you last eat, Corporal?”

“… Yesterday, sir. I’ve just been busy lately, and food is… I can’t even lie, the stuff we serve isn’t food.”

“You must eat _something_ , Corporal, and that’s an order.” Charles glared at him. 

“Sir, if I have to even _look_ at Shit on a Shingle again, I am going to throw up on principle.”

Charles sighed and stared at Klinger before he glanced up when Nurse Kellye returned. “Nurse Kellye, might I trouble you to go to my tent and retrieve something?”

“But the-”

“I’ll handle the medication.” Charles said simply. “There’s some canned sardines in my tent, and some saltine crackers, in my trunk beside the door.” He reached into his pocket. “This is the key.”

“Major, you don’t have to-”

“Hop to it, Nurse,” Charles cut Klinger off quickly, his imperious tone making her scramble out of the ward quickly. “Corporal, you stay here.” Charles said as he stood. “I’ll take care of things.”

Once the bed pan had been removed from under the struggling soldier, the man tucked in again, medication administered, and Kellye returned with the food he had requested, Charles popped open the can, giving Kellye a saltine with one of the small fish on it, before he handed the rest of the can to Klinger. 

“Eat,” He ordered. “Kellye, make sure he eats, I’m going to find another corpsman to relieve the Corporal.”

“Major, really this isn’t-”

“I will _make_ it an order.” Charles said as he glared at Klinger, his eyes ice cold. Klinger looked down and cleared his throat, plucking one of the sardines from the can and eating it whole, chewing slowly and sighing at the taste of real food. 

“Thank you, Major,” The voice called out after he opened the door to the ward, ready to go out and search for someone to replace Klinger for the time being.

“Do not mention it,” Charles said simply. “To _anyone_.”

* * *

“Klinger, I’m going to Seoul, you got any pajamas I can borrow?” Pierce asked as Klinger came in to collect Pierce’s luggage.

“No, but I got a lovely low-cut peignoir, chickadee red, with oriental peacocks embroidered over each breast.” Klinger said, smiling genuinely up at the surgeon.

Charles nearly choked on his cognac, staring at Klinger as Pierce pouted and thanked him. “That is _obscene_ , Corporal.”

“It’s certainly risque,” Klinger grinned as he looked at Charles. “But no one here gets to see it.”

“That’s the true crime,” McIntyre said with his broad grin. 

“McIntyre, I cannot believe that you were also from Boston.”

“Just not the same side of it as you, Chuckles.” McIntyre said. “I dunno, Hawk, you should take Klinger up on it, Gilmore might like it.”

“Ha ha, it is to laugh,” Pierce said, rummaging through the room. 

“Klinger, when do you get off duty this evening?” Charles asked idly, looking at the man. “I have some tailoring I wish to have done, and you’re better with a clothing needle than I am.”

“You don’t know if he’s better with a surgical needle, Charles, he might be better than you there.”

“I can’t handle blood, so no worry about that.” Klinger rolled his eyes. “I get off at 1600. Come by my tent?”

“Of course.” Charles said, looking back at his book as Pierce continued to rummage about the room. 

“Attention, attention, everyone report to O.R. choppers are coming!” O'Reilly’s voice called over the PA system and Charles slammed his book shut as Pierce stared at him and McIntyre.

“What? No, no, no! Tokyo, Gilmore, roses, nightingales, clean bedsheets!”

Charles stood up. “Oh, do shut up, Pierce.”

* * *

Surgery was brutal, as usual in Korea. Even in Tokyo Charles had found something to complain about the conditions. But comparatively, Tokyo was the Boston General of Asia, with everything a surgeon could possibly, need, want, or lust after. 

Well… Perhaps Korea had one of those things. Charles watched as Klinger came in with another litter, frowning when the man breathed heavier than usual. He previously could carry a litter with ease, every muscle carefully trained from months of bootcamp and time at the 4077th. Charles had been here only for a few months, but he was sure as he had graduated Harvard that Klinger was not meant to be breathing that heavy after only six litters.

“Corporal, do you require anything?”

“I’m fine, Major,” Klinger called back, breathless as he finished transferring the patient from litter to operating table with Straminsky. “Right as…”

Charles looked up just in time to see Klinger’s eyes flutter above the white of his surgical mask. “Klinger!” He shouted, just as the Corporal fell to the floor.

“Oh come off it, goldbrick!” Burns shouted as he stepped over Klinger.

“Colonel, take over,” Charles shouted as he moved over to the table. “Burns, _move_.”

Burns was about to say something, he was sure, but he was unable to do anything but yelp when Charles all but shoulder checked him out of the way. 

“Corporal Klinger, you better not be faking this,” Charles cursed quietly as he lifted the man with an ease that shocked even him. He wasn’t as muscular as Klinger, but the man was just so _small_. “If I find out you read Felix’s letter I will beat you senseless with my own two hands.”

“Of course he’s _faking_ , Winchester!” Burns cursed as Ginger handed him his scalpel and he began to work on a patient, even as Charles stepped aside with Klinger in his arms. 

“His pulse is steady but he’s barely breathing.” Charles called out and Pierce, concern in his eyes, stepped away from his table. Charles was no longer sterile, but he didn’t care about that. 

“Pneumonia?” Pierce asked. “His file says he had it a lot as a child.” 

“I don’t know, give me those scissors.” Pierce passed the scissors and Charles cut away the lovely red dress that Klinger had been wearing, hoping that the man would forgive him his mistreatment of his precious armor against army life. He stared at the fine boning of a bodice beneath Klinger’s clothing. Heavy silk and ivory. A _real_ corset.

The lack of eating, the breathlessness, the spells of dizziness and near fainting, it all made sense.

“You _fucking_ reckless moron.” Charles snapped and everyone in the O.R. turned to gawk at him.

“ _Major_!” Burns yelped out, and Charles gripped the top of Klinger’s corset, the small hooks struggling to be pulled apart it was laced so tightly together, before he snarled and _pulled_. Small eyehooks sprung off of the corset and Klinger’s lungs filled with the first full breath he had to be taking in the last three days, and Charles checked his pulse again as Klinger coughed and breathed deeply, rolling onto his side and dry heaving as he shook.

“Corporal!” Charles shouted, smacking Klinger’s face lightly, and Klinger looked at him, wheezing slightly before he looked away. 

“Sorry, Major, I’ll get everything cleaned up.”

“Igor, get Klinger back to his tent.” Pierce said. “We’ll check on him later, but he needs rest.”

Charles’ fingers were steady as he operated, he didn’t tremble once under the pressure of the O.R.

It wasn’t until hours later, when he stepped out of a 38 hour day, that he allowed his hand to shake as he rubbed his eyes and sat in the Swamp. Pierce had gone to check on Klinger, mostly due to the fact that he was certain that Charles would “tear Klinger a new asshole” and he would have been right.

It was for the best. It probably saved Charles from making a fool of himself by telling Klinger that he should have asked Charles for help lacing himself up.

* * *

“Corporal?”

“Come in, Major.”

Klinger still looked too thin, he hadn’t eaten much after his brief fainting spell in the O.R., still declaring the food in the mess tent entirely inedible even a week later.

“What’s that?” Klinger asked, frowning at the box in Charles’ hand.

“This hunger strike _must_ end.” Charles said simply, sitting on the chair beside Klinger’s bed and passing the man the box. Klinger placed his latest sewing project, repairing his rather expensive corset from Charles’ brutality. 

“I _can’t_ eat the stuff they serve in the mess tent right now, Major. Believe me, when I get hungry enough, I’ll eat that slop.”

Charles handed over the box, opening the flaps. 

“What?”

“Canned tuna, shark fin, glazed plums, sardines aplenty, rice crackers, canned crab legs, pickled onions and something they claim is pickled herring but I seriously doubt it.” Charles handed the box over. “And next month the same will come again.”

“… Major, I can’t accept this.” Klinger tried to hand the box back, but Charles pushed it into his arms. “ _Major_ , I won’t take charity.”

“Then a gift, not charity.” Charles said simply. “Corporal, I’m… A rather unliked character around here. You’re the only one that treats me the same way that you treat everyone in camp.”

Klinger stared at him before he sighed and accepted the box, looking down at it. “It… It looks really good.”

“Here.” Charles pulled the jar of pickled onions from the box and opened it, holding it out to Klinger. “I know you would eat onions like apples if you could.”

Klinger hesitated before fishing out one of the pearl onions from the jar, popping it into his mouth. His lashes fluttered at the taste and crunch as he chewed, holding back a moan of delight at the taste. He cleared his throat and swallowed, looking at Charles. “Satisfied, Major?”

“Here,” He opened the can of crab legs. “Try these.”

“I don’t have any silverware.”

“We’re already in a barbarous war in this living hell, I think I can forgive you eating with your fingers.” Charles held out the can. “Eat. You haven’t eaten in over a week.”

“You want me to ruin my girlish figure?”

“Hardly, I’m helping you maintain it, and keep you from turning into a waif to be blown away at the slightest breeze.”

Klinger smiled, the first time he had smiled since Charles had entered the tent, and he counted that as a blessing. He dug his fingers into the can of crab legs and slurped down the sweet meat, “Thanks, Major.”

“You’re welcome, Corporal.” Charles said, watching Klinger eat more eagerly at the taste of real food.

He didn’t say anything else as Klinger ate, before he stood, claiming O.R. duties and stepping out before Klinger could see, buried beneath his canned cornucopia, a small box containing a pair of costume jewelry pearl earrings in a small velvet box.


	5. Henry, Please Come Home!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry Blake transfers to Tokyo, in his absence Frank Burns' relentless torment of everyone in camp increases. Charles is desperate to not be left alone in the camp with him.

“You know what the answer is? Henry.” Pierce said, sitting with McIntyre and Jones in the Swamp. Charles looked up from his book, blinking at the man. 

“Henry? He left us!” Black said, his Australian drawl less drunken since the still had been disassembled.

“Listen, listen, when were all of us really happy here?” Pierce asked, looking at the other doctors.

“When the nurses were new,” McIntyre said with a smug grin. 

“Oh really, how long did it take for them to get wise?” Charles asked.

“We were happy when Henry was in command. He understood us, we understood him.” Pierce laid out, talking over Charles. Charles wanted to be offended, but this plotting drew his attention away from his own misery under the Regime of Frank Burns.

“Sure, he was one of us!” Jones said.

McIntyre turned to the other surgeon. “You’d insult a man behind his back?”

“We had a mature, grown-up relationship.” Pierce went on, encircling his hands together. “We had him by the throat.”

“And why, pray tell,” Charles sighed, looking at the group of doctors, plus one Corporal O’Reilly. “Would Henry let himself be transferred back to this godforsaken hell hole?”

“Ego.”

“I _beg_ your pardon?” Charles blinked.

“The basic desire that all of us doctors have to be needed by those sick and wounded.” Pierce looked at O’Reilly, gesturing for the young man to come closer. “Come on, all we need is two passes to Tokyo.”

Charles stared as O’Reilly reached into his pocket, pulling out a stack of neatly organized little passes. “Okay, let’s see what we got.”

“Corporal, you are magnificent, but why, pray tell, have you not used these before now?” Charles asked as he looked at them. 

“Because if I use them too often then the higher ups get wise.” O’Reilly flicked through the cards carefully. “Hardship leave: Sister Pregnant. Transfer to Germany… Two passes to Tokyo, right under T.” He passed the two cards to Pierce, who held them up with a smug look.

“Gentlemen, with these, I promise you peace in our time.” The second pass was handed to McIntyre, and Charles felt his heart plummet at the thought of the two men who could keep Burns in line leaving.

“You’re not serious.” Charles said, staring at the two. “You’ll leave us here with Burns?”

“Yeah, well, we can’t send Burns to Tokyo, he wouldn’t get Henry back.” McIntyre said, prepared to stand and leave to pack.

“Pierce, why don’t you let Klinger and I go to Tokyo?”

“ _What_?” Captain Jones and Captain Black looked at the man. “How the _fuck_ is that fair?” Jones shouted. 

“Pierce, so far it has been us against him. You whittle down our numbers and he’ll become even worse. Klinger has suffered the most as a corpsman under Burns’ reign of terror.” Charles stared at them. “You can’t _leave_ me here with Burns.”

“I mean… It is true,” McIntyre stared at Charles before he looked at Pierce. “Burns hates him more than he hates us…”

“Yeah, but we let Major Deserter and Corporal Escapee go to Tokyo we might never see them again.” Black said with a scowl. Charles chose to ignore that particular snipe, much to the obvious surprise of everyone in the tent.

“Pierce,” Charles stared at the Captain. “Pierce, I swear on all that is holy and sacred to you and any other medical man, that I will return, _with_ Klinger, if you let us go to Tokyo to retrieve the Lt. Colonel Blake.”

The group looked at Charles, then began to speak among themselves. 

“It’s two days in Tokyo,” McIntyre said softly.

“And the MPs will be on them if they really do try to charter a plane back.”

“If they stay here Burns might actually try to put them in front of a firing squad.”

“Okay, okay…” Jones sighed and rubbed his eyes. “As much as I dislike you, Chuckles, I hate Frank Burns more.”

“I swear to all of you, we will get Henry Blake back.”

* * *

“Tokyo?” Klinger asked, staring at Charles. “Major, you get me to Tokyo for two days and I’ll be your _slave_.”

“That won’t be necessary, Klinger.” Charles said. “We have a mission, we need to get Colonel Blake back here, preferably before Major Burns turns this into Fort Knox.”

“What about my clothes?” Klinger asked, staring at the rack of clothing. “He’ll get rid of them while I’m gone.”

“I already entrusted Jones and McIntyre with protecting the Klinger Collection.” Charles gestured. “Pack, pack for two days in Tokyo.”

“… Regular fatigues?” Klinger asked, glancing at the one dress uniform and one set of fatigues he owned. 

“Whatever you want, I don’t give a damn, we just need to get out of here before Frank Burns realizes it.”

“Right, right, nothing too flashy or gaudy.”

Charles glanced up, blinking as a white, frilly wedding dress flew across the room. “… A white wedding gown, Corporal?”

“I’m entitled,” Klinger said as he held up a rather nice, understated black dress to his body. “I’m a virgin. Yeah, that’s coming.” He tossed a pair of black heels into the pile of clothing to go.

“The green satin. Colonel Blake likes that one.”

“Oh, of course!” Klinger said, throwing the gown into the pile. 

“And something to sleep in, Klinger.”

“Oh, open that bedside drawer, I have a negligee I never get to wear here.”

Charles lifted the thin satin garment by it’s straps, blinking at it. “Corporal… This… Dodge of yours…” He gently placed the shimmering cream satin down, edged in white lace, and wondered just how it would look next to the Corporal’s swarthy skin, down. “When you go back to the states… Will you continue to wear your typical daily garments from here?”

Klinger didn’t stop his packing, but fell silent. “I’m… I don’t know.” He shrugged after a moment of contemplation. “I guess it depends.”

“On what?”

“A lot of things… Depends on what job I get, depends on how Laverne feels. Depends on… If I make it out alive.” 

Charles was silent, watching Klinger pack his back with an efficiency that mirrored him working in the ward and O.R.. “And in an ideal world? If all of those stars and planets aligned?”

“… It hasn’t always been a dodge, Major. And I… I’d like to keep wearing them. But… Laverne thinks it’s just the dodge, you know?”

“Perhaps… Honesty would be the best policy?” Charles said. “In your next letter?”

Klinger wrung some nylons between his fingers before he cleared his throat, tossing them into his suitcase. “Yeah… That’s… That’s good advice, Major.”

* * *

Charles’ heart was pounding so hard he might as well have been making a run for the states when he and Klinger landed in Tokyo. 

He wasn’t sure how reassuring Klinger’s presence in Tokyo would be for Colonel Blake, but he’s sure that he could conjure up something to get the man back to the 4077th. Staring at the bright lights of the Tokyo downtown, handing off their luggage to the bellhop of the Grand Tokyo Hotel. A lovely building in blue and white, like a painted vase, the staff dressed in dark blue uniforms. Charles attempted to get a room with two beds, since the attempt to get two rooms failed. Holding up his two fingers and saying, “two beds” over and over while Klinger struggled with trying to convince the bellhop that he was not a “mama-san”.

“Oooh!” The concierge smiled at Charles. “I understand!”

“Thank you, dear girl!” Charles laughed, smiling at the girl. “Yes, two bed.”

She turned and collected a key, the room number on the white tag inked in blue, and gave a brief bow. “Goodnight, Major Winchester.”

Arriving at the room, Klinger sighed, happily kicking off his shoes, “Clean sheets, air conditioning, a heater, and a real shower! Come to papa!” He threw his scarf and coat off, started stripping before he even went into the bathroom, leaving a trail of clothing in his wake from the door to the bathroom, and Charles turned towards the rest of the room to keep decency between them.

He froze at the sight of the bed. It was large enough to fit four people and had satin pillows, satin sheets, and a plush, cotton bed cover that had a high enough thread count that Charles could imagine it was his own comforter back home. 

He heard the shower start in the bathroom and froze, clearing his throat as he turned to knock on the door. “Corporal, there’s only one bed in here.”

“… I’ll put a pillow between us, Major.” Klinger called from within the shower. “Please don’t ruin this for me.”

There were several horribly erotic images that flashed through Charles’ mind, followed by some more softly intimate ones. “Of course, Corporal.” Charles cleared his throat again, then turned to the room again. 

Burns was probably having a conniption fit at that very moment, realizing that Charles and Klinger, his two most popular punching bags since his promotion, were gone. Charles wondered how Pierce, McIntyre, Black and Jones were handling being left alone with Burns and Houlihan. Doubtless the gruesome twosome were making the lives of the others a living hell while Jones and Black tried to keep the hospital from falling down around their ears.

And Charles had two days to reverse this. 

He knew that Henry would be in this hotel, it was the main reason he had made the reservation. O’Reilly’s skills at digging up information from even just the barest hint of a lead had proven useful and Charles had a hastily scrawled list of Henry Blake’s regular haunts. A bath house, a massage parlor, and a small geisha house that Charles was… Hesitant to enter with Klinger. 

Lifting the telephone off of the cradle, Charles dialed for the operator and began his inquiries. 

It was nearly an hour of searching, of hanging up and dialing for yet another of the long list of places that Henry Blake frequented before he found a reservation for one at a restaurant, the White Dragon, which he quickly changed to a reservation for three before hanging up. 

“Corporal!” He called, turning only to jump at the sight of Klinger just exiting the shower. 

“No need to shout, Major,” Klinger said, having blow-dried his hair and done up the bare minimum of his makeup. His lips were done in a tasteful muted red, and Charles couldn’t help but think of the damask rose wallpaper in his mother’s favourite parlor back home. His eyes had been lined in cat eyes and he was holding a block of mascara in his hand.

“Ah, yes, well.” Charles cleared his throat, noting that beneath the threadbare silk robe, Klinger’s legs were freshly shaven. “Did… You steal Burns’ razor?”

“No,” Klinger gave a grin. “I bought one at the PX when we went through earlier.”

“I thought you were buying whiskey.”

“That too.” Klinger folded his arms, clearly trying to make the thin silk more modest than it was. “So did you track down the Colonel?”

“Yes, I did,” Charles cleared his throat. “You best wear that green satin with the black heels. The manager said that there is a live band tonight at the White Dragon.”

“Oh, fancy,” Klinger grinned. “No wonder the Colonel wanted to head out, if that’s the sort of places he’s eating every night.”

“Hopefully we can appeal to his… Morality.”

“We’re certainly not his closest friends.” Klinger looked cautious now. “Maybe we should have let Hawk and Trap come here?”

“And leave us at the mercy of Frank Burns and Margaret Houlihan?”

Klinger hesitated at that. “Okay, yeah.” He sighed before he gestured to the shower. “Want to go shower, Major? Plenty of hot water in a hotel.”

“Thank you, I think I will, ah, freshen up.”

Klinger unzipped his suitcase and began to pull out his outfit for the evening. The green satin dress, the black heels, and a pair of dark stockings to go with it all. Charles tried desperately not to watch as he made his way to the bathroom, but he couldn’t help the way he choked on his own breath at the sight of black silk and lace, the slip that Klinger had chosen to wear beneath the outfit, and the black silk panties that were also laid out. 

Despite the bounty of hot water, Charles opted to turn to water to freezing cold, in an attempt to cool down his imagination and the over eager reaction to his body.

* * *

The fact that failure was not an option was the only reason that Charles remained focused on his mission. 

Klinger was not helping. He had a cigar between his lips as he sat, cross-legged at the table on Charles’ right, while Henry sat on Charles’ left, scowling at him slightly as he drank sake. Klinger was watching the live band sing a Japanese version of “Anything Goes”. Couples danced together on the floor, laughing brightly. GIs with pretty Japanese working girls on their arms, some obviously married couples, and Charles couldn’t help but feel envious of the ease with which they flaunted their relationships, or lack thereof. A married man could dance with a prostitute without fear of the word getting back to his wife back home. But Charles… A glance at Klinger confirmed in his own mind what he knew to be true. As lovely as he considered Klinger, with his clean shaven jaw and his dark eyes and Middle-Eastern features, if he stepped onto the floor with the man on his arm, drew him into a dance, not only would he fail to complete his mission here and now, to bring Colonel Blake home, he would also lose everything back home. 

Klinger looked over when a waitress came by and whispered in his ear, looking back at Charles. They had a silent communication before Klinger stood. “Gimme a min, Major, we got a call asking for you.”

“Ah, thank you, Corporal, take a message for me.” Charles said, nodding as Klinger gave a salute and walked back towards the phone behind the hostess counter.

“Look, Winchester, I understand why you’re here, but this is a big deal for me. And Burns will clam down, once his ego has been satisfied.” Henry said.

“It’s not about Burns, Henry,” Charles said with a firm tone, looking at the man. “It is about quality.”

“Beg your pardon?” Henry tore his gaze away from the band that had moved on to play “Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries” in Japanese. 

“Henry, you are a doctor,” Charles gripped his glass of water firmly. “You are a man sworn to do no harm. Leaving Major Burns in charge has inflicted harm and prejudice on those who work under him. North Koreans, South Koreans, anyone who is not an American GI, is given a lesser standard of care under Major Burns. Without you the 4077th has stumbled, their faith has waned.”

“Winchester, you’re not calling me back because you and Frank Burns hate each other.”

“I am trying to call you back because there is a miscarriage occurring in the 4077th.” Charles stared at him. “What do you want to do? Remain here and treat boils on the backsides of Generals? Or do you want to do something that matters?”

“Ever since you got to the 4077th you’ve been trying to get back _here_ , Winchester.” Henry said with a frown. “I just got back first.”

“People change.” Charles said simply. “How many times in the last month have I gone to you demanding a transfer? How often, Henry?”

Henry hesitated. “I… Don’t know.”

“None. Because I understand that I am needed back there, in Uijeongbu.” Charles clenched his fist. “It’s where _you_ are needed. You’re a good doctor, Henry, one of the best I know, and people back there need you.”

“Major!” Klinger came running back, wobbling slightly in his heels as he rushed forward, a note in hand. “Major, you and I need to get back right now.” He managed to sound truly worried, even though Charles could tell it was an act. 

“What? What happened?” He asked, sipping at a cup of sake.

“That patient, back at the 4077th? Elevated white count and his fever is up to 104, he’s about to blow off the top of his thermometer.” Charles stood as Klinger gave his explanation. 

“Still has abdominal pain?” Charles asked, standing as he held out a small plate of sashimi and pickled ginger to Klinger, who ate the pieces easily with his fingers rather than the finicky chopsticks he had been struggling with.

“He’ll make it,” Charles said as he placed money on the table for their meals, resting his hand on the small of Klinger’s back out of habit from all of his dates with women, guiding the Corporal away. “O’Reilly is a strong young man.”

“Radar?” Henry straightened, his head snapping around to focus on the two. “What about Radar?”

Klinger froze, looking at Blake and then at Charles before he cleared his throat. “I’ll… Get our coats, you can explain.”

“No, no,” Henry stood, placing a stack of crumpled bills on the table. “I’ll go with you, explain on the way.”

Hook. Line. Sinker.


	6. Tuttle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank Burns is the only one not in on the myth of Captain Tuttle, and Charles and Klinger can't help but delight at the Major making a fool of himself.

“What are you doing?” Charles frowned, standing outside of the ward, watching as Pierce and Trapper carried box upon box of supplies, noting that formula, penicillin, and fresh sheets were the least of the items. “That’s…”

“Orders from Captain Tuttle.” Pierce said simply, giving him a look. 

“There is no Captain Tuttle,” Charles frowned. 

“That’s not what the paperwork says.” McIntyre said simply. 

Charles frowned, processing it all, before he froze at the sight of Sister Theresa coming around the enormous truck, her habit flowing like great wings around her body. The pieces fell into place and Charles looked at Pierce and McIntyre before he nodded. 

“Sister Theresa,” He said. “I have some additional supplies for you and the orphanage, requested by on high, I will just get Pierce and McIntyre to assist me.” Going into the supply tent, Charles looked at the two and whispered, “Did you make sure to give them a supply of aspirin?”

“Aspirin, why?” McIntyre asked.

“Children tend to get hurt, and babies tend to teethe,” Charles said simply. “Give them more bedsheets, I’ll requisition more.”

“… Winchester, do you have a _heart_?”

“That is an awful rumor, started by the enemy.” McIntyre said with a grin.

“Shut up,” Charles scowled. “So long as _my_ name isn’t on that order to give supplies, then I see no reason to, as you say, skimp.”

“Just imagine if we had put Frank’s name there,” McIntyre said, hefting a stack of bedsheets as Pierce rummaged through the shelves for jars of aspirin. Charles himself grabbed stacks of sheets and carried them as well to the truck, watching as the last boxes of supplies were shoved in and the truck closed up.

“But… Who is the author of all of this generosity?” Sister Theresa asked as she climbed into the truck.

“Uh, Tuttle, Captain Jonathan Tuttle.” Pierce smiled at Sister Theresa.

“Oh… Well, you tell him thank you, from the bottom of our hearts.” 

Charles watched as the truck left, looking at Pierce and McIntyre with curiosity as they waved the Sister off. “Captain Tuttle?”

“Yeah, he’s been a lifelong friend of mine.” Pierce walked towards the swamp, and Charles followed, hands in his white coat pockets. “Who left the fridge open? I’d say Tuttle. Who knocked over the garbage? Tuttle. Who wet the bed?”

“Tuttle.” McIntyre supplied with a grin. 

“He had no control.” Pierce poured himself a martini, and Charles rummaged and retrieved his nearly-empty bottle of cognac. 

“So this… Tuttle? He was enlsted at the same time as you?”

“Precisely, but no one knew until tonight that we had been assigned the same unit.”

Charles sat swirling his glass of cognac, watching Pierce as the man sipped at his own drink. “So you’re defrauding the United States Army in the name of an orphanage in Korea?”

“Oh come on, Chuckles, even you have to have a heart.”

“I will go along with this charade,” Charles said simply. “If only because when it inevitable goes too far it will prove quite amusing to see you explain away someone who doesn’t exist that nobody can recall seeing and gaslight them into submission.”

* * *

“So this Captain Tuttle,” Klinger said, sitting on his bed and finishing up some stitch work on the collar of a negligee. “He isn’t real, is he?”

“No, he is not.” Charles confessed.

“You know Major Burns is tearing his hair out. He thinks Major Houlihan is sleeping with someone who apparently doesn’t exist, and Major Houlihan is drooling over someone who doesn’t exist.”

Charles chuckled as he watched Klinger smooth his fingers over his stitching. “Well, we all know how Major Burns and Major Houlihan are.”

“Why are you playing along with this?” Klinger asked curiously, looking up at Charles as he tied off the thread, lifting it to his gleaming white teeth to cut it, dark eyes noting the way that Charles’ own gaze followed the line of Klinger’s teeth and lips. 

“Perhaps I enjoy tormenting Major Burns? After the number of times he’s tormented me.” Charles stood, and collected the box of glazed plums from where Klinger had hidden it in his closet. He plucked out one of the plums and held it out to Klinger.

He didn’t expect Klinger to lean over and part his lips, biting into the plum and then pulling back, chewing as he left half of the sweet fruit in Charles’ fingers. “You know what you should do,” Klinger said around a mouthful of plum, chewing as he smirked at Charles. “You should suggest that Major Burns share quarters with Captain Tuttle. Set up a room for him like he’s a real person an everything, and then Burns ends up always just missing him.”

Charles laughed, lifting the other half of the plum to his own mouth and eating it, staring at Klinger. “You cruel, cruel creature you.” 

Klinger smirked, a practiced coquette, and when he batted his eyes he cooed. “You say the nicest things, Major.”

* * *

“One last touch,” Pierce grinned, producing a framed photograph of Konrad Adenauer. 

“Beautiful,” Charles smirked, looking at the quarters in the tent they had set up. Burns would be moving in the next day, and his current shift in O.R. ensured that he wouldn’t witness their deception. There was a stack of books on medical science and druidism, the framed photo of the current German Prime Minister, the neatly made bed, and what civilian clothing they had produced were some of Klinger’s best work as far as suits went, black fabric and a green silk tie that matched the fabric of one of Klinger’s dresses. “A man after Frank Burns’ own twisted little heart.”

“Too bad they’ll never meet,” McIntyre laughed.

Charles rubbed his hands together, smirking as he looked at his co-conspirators. “Gentlemen, I think we all deserve a drink. I am, as you say buying.”

With the fresh bottle of cognac emptied into all of the glasses, Charles, Pierce, McIntyre, Klinger, and O’Reilly all clinked their glasses together in a toast. 

“To Captain Tuttle, relieving us of the duty of dealing with Burns.”

“Now hear this,” Blake’s voice called over the PA, and the group paused, waiting for the announcement, “could Major Charles Winchester, Major Frank Burns, and Captain Tuttle all report to my office.”

Charles froze, staring at the group, who looked right back at him as if he was a man being summoned to the guillotine. “ _No_.”

“Good luck, Chuckles,” McIntyre gave his shoulder a hard pat. “We’re rooting for you.”

* * *

“Colonel Blake, I _strongly_ protest this arrangement.” Charles stared at Blake as Burns stood, purse-lipped and scowling. 

“I agree, Colonel, General Hammond asked me personally to keep an eye on Captain Tuttle, I don’t need any assistance in that endeavor!”

“Precisely, _please_ , Colonel Blake, let Major Burns move in with Captain Tuttle, let him become _his_ problem, not mine.”

“I don’t want Captain Tuttle and Major Burns stuck with just one another, and the Swamp is overcrowded as it is, so that’s an order. By 1200 tomorrow, you’re going to be moved in with Major Burns and Captain Tuttle.”

“Colonel, can’t Pierce move in? After all, he knows Tuttle the best.”

“That’s not true, I know him best!” Burns snapped, glaring at Charles. 

“Pierce would certainly be a better fit for such living arrangements.”

“I’ve given an order and that’s that, Major Winchester.” 

Blake very rarely pulled rank, and Charles wished, more than anything, that he could reveal this charade to the Colonel, but doing so in front of Burns would likely jeopardize all the good work that Pierce and McIntyre had done for Sister Theresa. 

_First, do no harm._

Charles breathed deeply, flaring his nostrils before he closed his eyes and nodded. “Of course, Colonel Blake.”

* * *

“Where do you want it, Major?” Klinger asked, hefting Charles’ trunk with the same easy grace as he carried bodies on litters. 

“Anywhere, Corporal,” Charles scowled at his cot, absolutely miserable at the prospect of being trapped in this tent with only Burns and the mythical Captain Tuttle for company. Perhaps he might lose his mind just enough to hallucinate intelligent conversation with Jonathan Tuttle. Even hallucinations of Burns didn’t make the man intelligent. 

“Oh come on, Major, it can’t be that bad?”

“Corporal, I was unhappy in the Swamp. This is now my definition of _hell_.” 

Klinger glanced around the tent, lips pursed at the sight of Burns’ belongings already set up within. Framed picture of mother, his army officer’s handbook and leather bound bible as well as letters and cards from his wife. 

“Look, Major, maybe you should just… Tell the truth?”

The door to the tent opened and Burns stepped in, glaring at Klinger. “The truth about what? That you’re a degenerate trying to cheat out the U.S. Army?”

“I cannot tell a lie, Major Burns,” Charles said simply. “Klinger and I plan to run away together and start a small cafe in Vienna.”

Klinger couldn’t hold back a snicker and Burns scowled. “Look, Winchester-”

“I’m a Major, just as you are, Major Burns.”

“ _Major_ Winchester,” Oh, how Charles loved the dedication to military procedure that made Burns so easy to manipulate. “I do hope that you won’t let your perverse relationship with Corporal Klinger put off our new bunkie.”

“I am sure that Captain Tuttle won’t mind,” Klinger said simply. “He’s a very modern-minded man.”

“With modern sensibilities.” Charles agreed. “Even if he is _German_.”

* * *

“Captain Tuttle was a good man, a damn fine surgeon, and the best of us.” Colonel Blake held up his bottle of bourbon, already sloshed even before his toast, the celebration of Captain Tuttle’s impossibly brief life and death. 

Charles sat at the back of the Mess tent, Klinger grinning around a cigar, perched beside him while Pierce, McIntyre, and Jones all giving their own toasts to Captain Tuttle after Colonel Blake.

“So what you told Major Burns earlier,” Klinger asked, his legs crossed and elbow resting upon his knee as he looked up at Charles. “Us running away to Vienna. That was a joke, right?”

Charles cleared his throat, staring down at his own glass of Swamp gin. “It was said to get a rise out of Burns. You know what he thinks of the both of us.”

Klinger hesitated before nodding, clearing his throat. “You know that he’s… He’s a jackass, but you don’t have to paint an even bigger target on your back.”

“I could hardly let him just needlessly attack you.” Charles cleared his throat. “It’s ungentlemanly, and you’re quite the lady.”

He caught the flush on Klinger’s dark face, and the way those warm black eyes looked away from him quickly, “Look, we’re both in the sights of Major Burns and Houlihan already. We don’t need to stand out much more than we already do. We gotta just… Get out of here.”

“Corporal-” Charles cleared his throat. “Maxwell.” He stared at Klinger’s long legs, muscular and lean. “Maxwell… I… I don’t want you to leave without me. And the thought of leaving here without you pains me.”

Klinger blinked, staring at the man. “What does that mean?”

“… Maxwell, do not make me say it any more plainly than that.”

A cheer went up for the deceased Captain Tuttle and Charles and Klinger lifted their drinks out of muscle memory when people began to sing a song in the man’s honor, disjointed and jumbled about in the crowded tent. 

“Major, I… I have a girl back home.”

“I know.” Charles said simply. “And I… I understand if you do not wish to rely on my assistance with getting you out of this hell. I had merely hoped that we could go through this hell together.”

Klinger was quiet before he cleared his throat, looking down at his drink then swallowing down half of it. “Major, I think you should know.” He stood, a bit wobbly on his heels from all the alcohol consumed over the course of the evening. “I don’t do affairs. I do all or nothing.”

Watching him walk away broke Charles’ heart in a thousand small ways.


	7. The Ringbanger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Pierce and McIntyre operate on Colonel Brighton, in more ways than one, they inadvertently put Charles in the man's crosshairs.

Charles did not like Colonel Buzz Brighton. But he liked Burns even less. If the man’s presence annoyed Burns, then it was a welcome one. Even if the man was every typical career military officer that Charles had ever seen. He was a horrific patient, smug and arrogant, and while Charles tried to keep his professionalism about it, he couldn’t help but scowl at the way Brighton casually talked about the deaths of his young boys at the front. 

What made it worse was that even with Klinger avoiding the man, it was hard to disappear in the 4077th entirely, and Buzz Brighton clearly had seen Klinger, with his bright pink Sunday dress and white heels. 

“Pierce, McIntyre,” He sighed, glaring at the two. “Can you _please_ just sign off on Colonel Brighton and send him away from here? Existence in this rathole is miserable enough without that man occupying the V.I.P. tent.” 

“And send him back to the front to start up a fresh new deluge?” Pierce looked up at him. “We swore a Hippocratic oath.”

“I swore to the same oath, Pierce.” Charles sighed in frustration. “But the man is driving me insane.”

“Look, don’t worry, Charles, it’s just battle fatigue.” McIntyre hummed as he sipped at his martini. 

“ _Battle_ fatigue?” Charles asked, skeptical as he stared at the two other surgeons. “Really? I saw him doing fifty push ups. He’ll be breaking records for calisthenics two years after he’s dead.” 

“We’re going to get him sent back to the states so that we get a break from the neverending stream of battle.”

Charles stared at the two men as if they had sprouted scales and turned into iguanas. There was no way they could mean that. “Pierce, McIntyre.” He rubbed at his eyes as he sat on his cot, turning his gaze towards the two men after a moment. “Please, for the love of all that is holy and decent to you, do not scheme your way through this. Just _sign_ the paperwork and have Colonel Brighton sent back to the front he so desperately wishes to go to.”

“Well, uh… Why don’t you do it, Chuckles?” Pierce said simply. “You’re a Major, you outrank us.”

“He is _your_ patient!” Charles shouted, his patience wearing thin after days of hearing the snide barbs of Colonel Brighton. Standing abruptly from the cot, he snarled at the two men, his veneer of politeness worn far too thin that even good breeding couldn’t keep him from lashing out. “Fine. I will go to Colonel Blake, I will get Colonel Brighton’s file, I will sign off on him and send him back to the front after an examination that should have taken place two days ago by you two gin-soaked lice.” He slammed the door to the tent shut, listening to the gleeful cackling of the two men he had left behind and feeling that he might have played into a hand of theirs that he was unaware of.

He stormed through the camp, single-mindedly focused on getting to only to bump roughly into Klinger.

They had avoided each other since the incident with Captain Tuttle’s funeral, and it had been the longest weeks in the 4077th that Charles had experienced. He had still gotten a package of food from Tokyo that he had left in Klinger’s tent, concerned about the man eating as he always was. 

“Major,” Klinger looked up at him, and his eyes immediately flickered, concern crossing his face. “You okay, Major? You’re distracted and you usually aren’t.”

“Just… Colonel Brighton.” Charles sighed by way of explanation, looking at Klinger, then doing a double take at the low backed red satin dress that the man wore.

“New dress,” Klinger smiled as he looked up at Charles. “Based it off of that satin number Fay Wray wore in King Kong.”

“You certainly look like a starlet.” He said simply, clearing his throat. “Just… Stay away from Brighton.”

“Don’t worry,” Klinger let his expression turn to something unhappy that Charles disliked seeing on his face. “I’ve been avoiding the V.I.P. tent like my life depends on it.”

“I try to avoid the Swamp when he is having some drinking contests with Pierce and McIntyre.”

“Look, if you’re stuck with them, you can come to my tent, Major.”

Charles froze, staring at Klinger before he cleared his throat. “That would be unwise, I think.”

“Well… The invitation is open, even after Brighton leaves.” Klinger looked up at him, smiling as he turned to leave, waving to Charles. “Thank you for your care package. I saved the shark fins for when you come visit.”

Charles cleared his throat, looking at Klinger as he walked off, wanting to follow him when he saw the man headed towards his tent. 

He froze, however, when he saw Colonel Brighton standing in his red robe across the dirt excuse of a road. Charles froze before he cleared his throat and walked over, stern and imperious, towering over the shorter man. “Colonel Brighton,” He watched the man’s wide blue eyes fix on his face, the man stepping back when Charles approached, as if Charles’ own presence might infect him. “I am going to be coming by your tent to conduct your final examination. I am determined to return you to the front, even if Pierce and McIntyre believe that you are not prepared to return.”

“Major, I am more than fit,” Brighton’s voice was tight, but he at least recognized that Charles was his best ticket out of the 4077th. He hesitated, his hand in his pocket for a moment before he pulled his hand out to shake Charles’. “I’ll see you later. I’m just headed to the mess tent for some food.”

“Good, eat as much as you can,” Charles said simply. “Gather your strength, I will see you in a few hours, Colonel Brighton.”

* * *

“What is that smell?” He asked, stepping into Klinger’s tent. Klinger grinned as he sashayed over to his small stove, picking up a standard issue kettle and sloshing the liquid around inside. 

“I can’t make proper shark fin soup here,” Klinger poured the broth into two ceramic coffee mugs, no doubt stolen from the mess tent, filled already with whole canned shark fins from his care package. “But Rosie gave me some dashi broth and she said it will be good with them.”

Charles grabbed a pair of wooden chopsticks, simple things that Klinger had acquired, perhaps from Rosie, and sat down with the mug in his hand. “I’m sure it is delicious.”

Klinger sat across from him, legs crossed as he stared at Charles, the two of them eating their small shared meal together. Charles felt his shoulders relaxing as he sat, looking at Klinger’s latest fashion creations, then at the man himself as he sat and sipped at the dashi, chewing on the whole shark fin. He was wearing stockings, and while his legs were currently unshaven, Charles couldn’t help but want to touch them, causing him to clutch at his mug more tightly. 

“Look, Major,” Klinger cleared his throat, looking at Charles while he drummed his fingers on the mug. “I… You know Laverne?”

“Yes, you know I do,” Charles watched as Klinger rubbed his fingers over the edge of the mug, looking down.

“I wrote to her,” Klinger said simply. “And… Told her that I was… I had some doubts. That we would… That we would be good together.” He cleared his throat. “Hardest letter I ever wrote.”

Charles nodded, looking down at his own mug. “I’m afraid I do not know that feeling, but I empathize with you.”

Klinger hesitated before patting the bed beside him, and Charles himself hesitated, more because he worried about his legs giving out beneath him as he moved to sit beside the other man. “Major, I thought a lot about what you said.” His fingers rested on Charles’ wrist, and Charles couldn’t help but focus on the callouses that brushed against the tender skin of his inner wrist. “I… You know that I’m… I’m not… I’m an immigrant.” He cleared his throat again, his fingers spasming for a moment. “I’m from Toledo, my best aspirations is owning a delicatessen back home, and even that might not work out.” His legs shifted nervously, one high heel dangling off of his foot as he nervously looked up at Charles. “I just want to give you a fair picture of what you’re getting into. I don’t do nothing by halves.”

“I don’t care about that.” Charles whispered, staring at Klinger. “I have money and influence enough for both of us.” 

They were silent for a long moment before Charles carefully leaned forward, tilting his head in hopes of capturing the Corporal’s lips in a kiss.

The door opened quickly, “I know this is my tent, I know because it’s next to the PA…” Colonel Brighton froze as he looked into the tent, seeing the two men. Charles stood as quickly as he possibly could and Klinger turned, eyes wide with terror as he stared at the man. Looking away, Brighton slowly closed the door, then walked towards his own tent.

“Major-”

“I have to go.” Charles said quickly, before he could say anything else that would get him into even more trouble, with either Klinger or Brighton. He opened the door to the tent and walked out at a quick pace, walking as far away from Colonel Brighton’s tent as he possibly could.

* * *

“I saw him, I saw that Doctor nearly kissing that degenerate!”

“What, Nurse Klinger?” McIntyre asked, confused as he blinked innocently at Colonel Brighton. “It wasn’t her fault that she got the wrong blood during surgery.”

Brighton blinked rapidly, shaking before Pierce grabbed his arm firmly. “Come on, Buzz, let’s get you to the ambulance.”

“Fine, fine, let’s go to the ambulance.” Pierce led him around Colonel Blake and Charles and O’Reilly, Charles feeling a breath of relief at the fact that what could have been a horrific decision had played out well enough. 

With Pierce and McIntyre’s gaslighting of the Colonel, no one would believe him when he said that he thought Charles was a homosexual, he thought that Burns was a transvestite and homosexual as well. He was unreliable. “Half out of his mind with battle fatigue,” as Pierce had put it. The ambulance started up with orders to take the Colonel to Seoul, then to Tokyo, then to the States if the vehicle could drive on water. 

It was not enough distance between the two of them, if Charles had anything to say about it. 

“You alright, Chuckles, you look white as a sheet.” McIntyre said as he looked at Charles, resting a hand on his shoulder in a way that Charles would normally _never_ allow, but couldn’t help but be comforted by in this moment. 

“I’m fine, McIntyre,” Charles cleared his throat. “Just… Relieved that that man is gone.” He shrugged off the hand and turned, leaving the tent.

He should go to Klinger’s tent, to speak with the man, to finish their previously interrupted conversation. Instead he grabbed his robe, towel, and pajamas from the Swamp and headed to the showers.

He stood under the hot stream until it turned cold, cleaning himself once, twice, three times over, resting his forehead on the faucet that was only as high as his chest. 

“Want me to wash your back, Major?” Klinger’s voice filtered through the fog of Charles’ anxiety-ridden mind, and when the man turned he choked on his own breath. 

Chickadee red peignoir with two oriental peacock appliques on each side of the chest. Klinger wielded Burns’ engraved razor, smiling at Charles as he slipped out of his house slippers, and then his peignoir, draping the satin on the hook next to Charles’ blue robe. 

“Corporal-”

“Yes, Major?” Klinger stepped into the other stall, turning on the water. He grabbed the bar of soap and began to lather up his legs, underarms, and chest. He began to shave without waiting for a reply and Charles couldn’t help but stare for a few moments before he cleared his throat. 

“Corporal,” He said simply. “What I did earlier was… It was inappropriate. And certainly not someone who is your superior should have asked of you.”

Klinger looked at him, smirking as he continued to shave. “I dunno. The nurses like it when the Doctors take advantage of them. Maybe I’d enjoy it if you did the same?” He leaned against the partition between them. “Play a little doctor? You can check out my tonsils.”

“… You’ve had them removed.”

“Maybe they grew back, you should check.”

Charles flushed at the suggestion and cleared his throat, turning off the shower and grabbing his towel. “Corporal, I… Ah… Colonel Brighton made it clear that I… I shouldn’t take advantage of you.”

“What if I kept a light on for you?” Klinger stared up at him, his dark eyes fixed on Charles’ own blue, the cold water causing his dark skin to look slick and perfectly touchable. “Just a thought, Major.”

Charles left the showers, went back to the Swamp, and ignored a whimpering Burns, a drunken Pierce, and a smug McIntyre as he laid on his bed and stared into space, begging for unconsciousness and dreading it at the same time when he knew that thoughts of Klinger would colour and haunt his dreams.


	8. The Army-Navy Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shelling shakes up the O.R., and then an unexploded bomb shakes up Charles.

It wasn’t often that Charles allowed himself to be dragged into the celebrations of the 4077th. He hated parties that were thrown in the mess tent, movie night was often only a minor escape (and often tasteless at best with Henry’s favourite film being “The Thing That Ate The Bronx”). But the Army-Navy football game was something that had boosted morale enough that it even reached Charles’ high brow sensibilities. Klinger, to honor the game, was wearing a festive bright orange and blue outfit, holding a Toledo Mudhens pennant as he walked through the compound running his errands. 

Charles had, in his good nature, even entered into O’Reilly’s betting pool regarding who would win the game, putting his money on Army simply because he was sure that seamen were unable to play games of football without worrying about the ball going overboard. Charles was on shift in the O.R. when the first bomb dropped, shattering the glass windows and making Nurse Able startle enough to send her tools scattering over the floor and the patient. 

“Nurse Able!” He shouted, grabbing hold of a scalpel before it could cut through anything vital in the patient’s chest cavity. “Take these to the autoclave, we need them sanitized.” He covered the patient’s body with his own, feeling dry wall and dirt spray over his body, hoping that none of the lights would shatter as he waited, feeling the patient’s heartbeat against his own chest. “Someone get in here!” He bellowed, hoping that someone would hear. “Someone help!”

More bombs dropped, enemy fire littered the compound, and Charles felt as if he might never breathe again as he waited for Nurse Able or a corpsman, a nurse, another doctor, anyone could come help.

“Major?” Klinger’s voice called out, and the rapid clicking of his heels quickly followed.

“Corporal, tell Nurse Able to get back here!” He shouted. “She has the surgical implements in the autoclave!”

“She’s out of commission, the pre-op got hit by a bomb, Able is okay but she’s now in the hospital!”

“Damnit, Corporal, I need you to get a new tray for me. Get alcohol, sterilize as best as you can, having him closed up will be better than nothing.”

A glance told him that Klinger’s face had gone pale, “Sir, I can’t handle blood.”

“Do not worry yourself, Corporal, I will be with you the entire time.” Charles said, ducking his head as another bomb was dropped, hailing dirt through the window into the O.R., Charles trying to keep it out of his patient.

“M-major-”

“Corporal, get some gloves on and get some surgical tools and alcohol.” Charles looked up at him again. “It will be fine, I will be here.”

Klinger nodded, swallowing, before he moved to follow the orders given. He covered the windows before he came back, propping litters against them in an attempt to keep the debris outside of the O.R.. When he returned, Charles stood, looking up at Klinger properly for the first time. 

“Corporal, you’re…” He blinked at the suit the man wore. It was two sizes too big now, with all the weight that Klinger had lost from his time eating the 4077th’s usual food, and it was clearly something off the rack that hadn’t fit properly even when Klinger first bought it. “You look…”

“I know,” Klinger said simply, checking the gas for the patient, making sure he was still asleep, glancing at his pulse recorded. “Patient looks good, but I’m no nurse.”

“A little bit shaky, but we all are.” Charles said as he looked at it as well. “Hand me that clamp.” He pointed at the one he needed. Klinger grabbed a squirt bottle of alcohol and cleaned it off as best as he could over the floor, covering the floor with the fluid as well. “What is that?”

“Gin, from the still.” Klinger said. “The only thing that hasn’t been hit so far.”

“Wonderful,” Charles sighed. “So, Corporal, why the suit?” He asked, as he carefully cleaned out the patient’s chest cavity, guiding Klinger on how to use the suction bulbs. 

“Because if… if I do buy it, I don’t want my body sent back to my Ma in a dress. I want to be in a suit. Just so that she isn’t disappointed in me.”

“Surely she knows about your dresses?”

“It’s one thing to know and another to see, Major.” Klinger flinched when some blood spewed up, but he stuck his arm in, suctioning it out so that Charles could see. 

“Good man, good man, you are doing beautifully, Corporal.” Charles murmured, like he was trying to calm a skittish horse back home. “You’re not going to die.”

“You’re a good surgeon,” Klinger said simply. 

“Not him, you. You’re not going to die, Corporal.”

Klinger gave a wry, nervous laugh as he handed over a suture. “How do you figure that one, Major?”

“As you said, I am a good surgeon,” Charles said, passing the suture back carefully. “I need cat gut, the wound is infected.”

“Okay, which one is that?”

“The one on the left.” Klinger passed the correct suture and Charles smiled beneath his mask. “Good man. As I was saying. I am a good surgeon. If you were to be wounded by the shelling, I would personally see to your surgery and subsequent treatment.”

Klinger was silent for a few long moments, Charles directing him to the various implements he needed, reassuring him softly, even as the shelling continued. 

“Major?”

“Yes, Corporal?”

“Could I ask you a favor?”

“Anything,” And he very rarely meant it without caveats, but this time Charles did. He’d do anything for Klinger.

“If I die here… I don’t want Colonel Blake to write the letter home. I want you to.” Klinger quietly cleaned the needle of the final suture set. 

“Corporal-”

“No, Major, just… If it happens. Today, tomorrow, next year, whenever. If it happens I want you to write my family. Tell them… Tell them that I loved them very much, and that I never took a life.” Klinger cleared his throat. “And tell your sister, Honoria, that she has first pick of my dresses.”

Charles laughed at that, despite himself, and as he placed the last stitch he rested his hand on Klinger’s own shaking hands. “I promise. I will write them if that happens.” They stood for a few moments, before Charles looked at Klinger and cleared his throat. “I will help you carry the patient, grab a litter.”

* * *

Charles breathed deeply as he stared at the unexploded bomb right outside of post-op, listening to Pierce on the phone with a General, attempting to get answers. 

When the other doctor hung up, Charles stared at him. “Well?”

“Yeah, well?” Burns asked, his voice an octave higher than normal. 

“He said if you follow instructions, Frank, you won’t have any problems.” Pierce said, placing the phone aside as he turned to face Burns. “If _I_ follow? Well, why me?”

“You’re in _charge_ , aren’t you? Or was that argument you had with Charles earlier just a Punch and Judy show?”

“Well, I… Yes?” Burns simpered, color draining from his face.

“The bomb has to be diffused, that’s not something you can order another man to do, is it?” Pierce asked, and Charles felt a sinking feeling come over him. 

Klinger was in post-op, helping out to the best of his ability, and as Pierce and Burns stared one another down, McIntyre entered O’Reilly’s reception area as well.

“What’s the scam?” He asked, lumbering over.

“We’re just about to draw straws to see who defuses the bomb,” Pierce glanced at Charles, who had to sit down on O’Reilly’s cot as his legs threatened to give out.

“… Boy, do I know when to come into a room.” McIntyre mumbled under his breath.

“Short match goes out and gives the bomb a physical.” Pierce said, holding out a stethoscope.

“Well, I’m a married man, you know! With children!” Burns said, looking at the other three doctors. 

“So am I,” McIntyre said firmly, his eyes piercing into Burns’ with a viciousness that Charles had forgotten existed in the man.

“I’m not,” Pierce said simply.

“Neither am I.” Charles added, feeling weak, thinking of Klinger inside post-op, the promise he made, but didn’t ask in return.

“You two got more to live for than either of us.” McIntyre said as Pierce lifted the matches.” Charles stood, walking over and taking a match from the grouping. It felt horrifyingly short.

“Who bought it?” Pierce asked, and the four of them lifted their matches. It was Burns that had the shortest match. Pierce handed him the stethoscope, a pencil, and paper. “Just go out there and write down all the markings you can find, most importantly find out if the bomb is still ticking.” Frank remained silent, petrified as he stared into the middle distance.

“Major Burns?” Charles asked, placing a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Are you quite all right?”

“Hmm?” Frank blinked and looked at Charles. “Oh sure, just need a moment to compose myself. Always before a crisis.” He cleared his throat, took a deep inhale through his mouth, exhale through his nose. 

And fell in an unconscious heap on the ground.

Charles stared at the man, reached down, and picked up the stethoscope, staring at his own hands. 

Pierce’s were shaking. And McIntyre had two little girls back home. Charles had a sister, but so did Pierce. And Pierce’s father loved him more than Charles’ own parents ever could have.

Breathing deeply, Charles thought of Klinger, then turned to Pierce. He wrote a note on the pad of paper, folded it up, then handed it to Pierce. “If I die, put this in my journal.”

“And if you live?” McIntyre asked, watching as Charles untied his boots, leaving himself only in his socks.

“Give it back to me.” He said simply, before turning to the door.

Charles was a big man. He had always been, even as a boy he had been broad and tall and a touch pudgy. Army life had toned his middle somewhat, but he was still barrel-chested and solid. A protective layer of fat, however, would not keep any shrapnel from tearing him apart if the bomb exploded while he was kneeling beside it. He walked as silently as he could across the compound, his steps small and careful as he made his way to the unexploded bomb. When he got to it he knelt down, held the stethoscope to the side and listened to the ticking of the bomb.

—

“You did it last time, Charles,” Pierce said quietly.

“You have a father that loves you.” Charles said, giving a wry, aborted laugh, staring at Pierce. “My family has left me here to rot.”

“You don’t know that, they could find a way to get you back tomorrow.”

“No, they will not.” Charles said softly. “If I died like this they would be more proud of me anyway.” He cleared his throat and took the stethoscope. “Just… Read me the instructions.”

“Any last words?” Pierce asked him, watching him quietly. 

“No,” Charles said simply. “Everything else seems irrelevant.”

Charles watched the others go behind a stack of sandbags, while he himself held onto his cot mattress, a feeble bit of protection, but all he could afford. 

“Major Winchester,” Houlihan said as he turned to leave. “You’ll need an extra pair of hands.”

“Major Houlihan, as far as I recall, you refuse to even stand beside me in surgery on human beings.”

“You still need help, Major,” Houlihan said simply, staring at him. “I will assist you.”

Charles cleared his throat, staring at her before he smiled. “Thank you, Major Houlihan.” He said quietly before he looked out at the bomb. He grabbed O’Reilly’s mattress as well and handed it to Margaret, grabbing the tool box that had been provided by Sergeant Zale. “Ours is not to reason why, ours is just to do, or die.” He murmured.

“Charge of the Light Brigade.” Houlihan looked at him with a wan smile, looking pale and shaky, even as she put a brave face on.

They inched their way silently over to the bomb in their socks, helmets put over their heads. When they got to it they put aside the mattresses, well within arm’s reach. Blake knelt behind sandbags with Pierce, McIntyre, Burns and O’Reilly, the group of them looking nervous on their behalf. 

“First, you need a wrench.” Colonel Blake called out, after some fumbling with the megaphone. Houlihan grabbed the wrench, handing it to Charles. “Okay, now you just gotta gently place it on the nut just above the locking ring, and loosen.”

Charles slowly slid the wrench in place over the nut, tightening it marginally, before he started to turn, careful to avoid hitting the tail fins of the bomb. He unscrewed the nut, removing it, before he listened to Blake’s next instructions.

“Now, rotate the locking ring counter-clockwise.” Charles carefully obeyed, praying to every god he could think of that he made it through this. “Now… Remove the tail assembly.” Blake called out. 

Charles looked at Houlihan and they both took a deep breath, putting all four of their hands on the tail assembly in order to slowly but surely lift it. Charles held the tail assembly in his arms, nodding to Margaret for her to let go as he cradled the tail assembly like a fragile infant. 

“Next, cut the wires leading to the clockwork fuse at the head.” Blake’s voice called out, and Charles nodded to Houlihan as she knelt to find the wire cutters in the tool box, trying to keep the noise of jostled tools down to a minimum. She found the cutters and clipped the red and black wires connecting the fuse and the tail assembly. “But first, remove the fuse.” Colonel Blake called out.

Houlihan froze, Charles froze, the two of them staring at one another before they tossed aside the tail assembly, the tools, and tried to race away. Charles grabbed at Houlihan, shoving her smaller frame beneath his own and curled up over her as he threw himself to the ground, his heart pounding in his chest as he heard the bomb go off.

When the ringing in his ear subsided, Charles realized that his heart was still pounding, he was still breathing. He was shaking, but he was alive. Houlihan was alive. 

Papers fluttered around him, like the most morbid of confetti, and Charles had the presence of mind to roll off of Margaret before he passed out out of sheer relief.

* * *

“Our Chuckles, a hero,” Pierce said with a grin. “Who knew you had it in you.”

“If you breathe a word of this, to anyone, I will ruin you,” Charles said simply as he drank his second glass of cognac in the last twenty minutes. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, save it.” McIntyre grinned and gave Charles’ shoulder a rough pat. “Makes me glad I’m from Boston too.”

Charles gave him a scowl, but didn’t say anything as he rubbed his face shakily. 

“By the way, Charles, here’s your note.” Pierce handed the slip of paper back to him. “What’s it say?”

Charles opened it, staring at his own handwriting which read, _Maxwell, I leave everything to you, including the knowledge that I love you._ After a moment, he ripped up the note, letting out a low breath. “Nothing.” He said simply, grabbing his cognac as he threw the pieces of the note into the stove of the Swamp. “Nothing at all.”


	9. Ceasefire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Word gets out that a ceasefire is on the horizon, and everyone frantically prepares to become civilians again. Charles cannot stand the idea of going home without Maxwell.

The word of the ceasefire, the end of the war, took the camp like a storm. Everything was in chaos. Locals were grabbing anything that wasn’t bolted down, and even some things that were. Nurses were kissing their sweethearts, and Pierce was rebuffing a few of those sweethearts with a lie that he was married with five children, Burns and Houlihan had vanished and been unseen since right after the announcement several hours earlier, and McIntyre seemed to be the only skeptic within the whole camp.

Charles had attempted to phone his family, but no one answered, so he had hung up and raced across the compound, great bounding leaps, to Klinger’s tent.

“Corporal, Corporal, I must speak with you.” He shouted as he banged on the door. Klinger threw it open and dragged him in, staring up at the man with a wide, drunken grin. 

“Major, champagne!” He held up the green bottle and poured a mug of champagne for Charles, who gratefully took it and downed the first mug, then the second when Klinger filled it. “It’s over, the war is finally over!”

Charles gripped at Klinger’s waist, drawing him close. He looked around and saw the Klinger Collection being folded as small as possible so that it could fit into Klinger’s suitcase in it’s entirety. 

“Corporal, Corporal, I need to speak with you,” Charles adjusted so that he was holding Klinger’s arms, holding the man only slightly away from him, rubbing at his arms. “Maxwell.”

Klinger, Maxwell, froze, his smile slowly fading from his face as he stared up at Charles with wide eyes. “Major?”

“Maxwell,” Charles whispered, staring at him. “I once told you that we would get out of this hell together.” He cleared his throat, his hands rubbing over Maxwell’s biceps, gently, firmly, staring down at his wide, dark eyes. “Words… Words cannot describe how much I would ache for you if you went back to Toledo without me. Or if I went to Boston without you.” He lifted his hands to Maxwell’s face, his fingers that had held men’s lungs, and hearts, and intestines, that had staved away death and staunched bleeding and desperately raced against the hands of time, cradled something infinitely more precious. “Come to Boston with me.” He whispered. “I have my grandmother’s house there. Meet Honoria. We will go to Toledo, I can meet your family, take you to a… A Mud Hen’s game. We can do whatever you please, but come back with me to Boston after.”

Maxwell stared at him, blinking as he breathed shakily, his hands moving to rest on Charles’ chest, feeling the man’s own heart pounding beneath the fatigues and flesh. 

“What about your family?”

“Damn them,” Charles said simply, staring at Maxwell. “You can be my new family.”

“Major, I…” Maxwell hiccuped and stared at him, tears brimming. “I can’t… Your reputation, your career. You _have_ something. I don’t. I can’t ruin that for you. It’s one thing back here, when no one knows us, when we thought we’d have years…”

“You could be a friend from the army,” Charles said desperately. “A patient I care about.” He clutched at Klinger’s hands. “You could be a personal assistant. A nurse. A close friend. Anything, anything you’d like.”

Maxwell shook his head, tears rolling down his face now as Charles held him even more tightly. “You know it would ruin you, Major.”

“I don’t give a _damn_!” Charles shouted, giving Maxwell a small shake. “I want _you_. Not any of that. Just you, Maxwell.”

Maxwell stared at Charles before he turned and grabbed the bottle of champagne, lifting it to his bottle and took a few long swallows of the bubbly alcohol before he stared at Charles. “I…” He took another drink. “I need to be more drunk for this conversation.” He murmured, and Charles took the bottle, drinking as well, drinking deeply before he placed the nearly empty bottle aside, drawing his arm around Maxwell’s waist. 

He was so small, compared to Charles. Charles’ broad palms framed his narrow waist, and his fingertips nearly touched. His hands slid over hips, ribs, waist, thighs, cupping at his ass, dragging him close and leaning down to kiss at the smaller man’s dark neck, biting and kissing at the tender, warm skin. 

“Major!” Maxwell gasped, grabbing at Charles’ shoulders, gasping when the man hefted him into his arms, Maxwell’s legs wrapping around his waist out of pure instinct. His high heels dangled from his toes, barely held on his feet just from sheer will.

He thought of his corset, and how he had carelessly tied it too tight for several days, and how Charles had apparently ripped it clean off of him, like a damsel in a romantic period novel. His heart stuttered at the thought, and he shivered as Charles kissed his way up his neck, to his jaw. He bit at Maxwell’s ear, at the costume jewelry there. Maxwell gasped his head tilted back, giving Charles more access, gripping at the back of his head, his fingers running through what hair Charles had left. 

“Charles,” He whimpered, and in that moment he knew he had pushed some sort of button.

A broad hand left his hip, gripped the support pole of the tent, and Charles, growling like a hungry bear, pressed him against the pole, holding him up. Maxwell’s shoes clattered to the floor, leaving him only in his thin stockings as he held on for dear life.

They were both drunk. That had to be the reason.

“Come home with me.” Charles growled into his neck. “Please. I will take such good care of you, Maxwell, anything you want, anything you need.”

Maxwell shivered and bit his lip and whispered, “I can keep the Klinger Collection?”

“Yes,” Charles growled, grabbing at Maxwell’s thigh, tossing his skirt up, searching for flesh, finding a garter belt instead. “You can keep it, wear it, around the house, when we go out, when you go to work, anywhere.”

“I can go to Toledo once a month?”

“I will buy you an apartment there so that you can.” Charles’ teeth dragged over Maxwell’s throat, his Adam’s apple. 

“What if I don’t know what I want to do? What work I want?”

“You can stay at home and be my trophy husband,” Charles fingered at the garter belt, at the edges of the stockings. “Or my trophy wife, if that is what you prefer.” Maxwell shook at that, gasping and gripping at Charles’ shoulders. A sly grin crossed the man’s face as he held Maxwell close. “Is that what you’d like? To be my lady? Mr Winchester some days, and Mrs. Winchester others?” Maxwell nodded, tucking his face against Charles’ neck. “You don’t have to be anything you don’t want. You can be everything you want to be.”

Dark, warm, calloused hands grabbed at Charles’ face and turned him, the two of them bumping noses only for a moment before their lips fitted together, warm and smooth. 

Charles had few kisses to compare this to, and the memories of those kisses were hazy and distant, rosy with the memories of his youth. He felt like a stone thrown into a volcano, melted by the overpowering heat of the other man. Maxwell’s strong fingers grabbed at Charles’ shoulders, his jaw, holding him close as their kiss deepened. 

“Charles,” Maxwell murmured, pulling back slowly from the kiss.

“Yes, darling?”

“I’ll go with you.” Maxwell murmured, kissing Charles softly, slowly, drawing out the kisses where one blended with the next, their breaths mingling between their lips.

* * *

“Welcome to the 4077th ceasefire party!” Colonel Blake announced, smiling drunkenly out at the crowd, General Clayton seated in his formal uniform next to Blake in his fishing hat and vest. 

Charles and Maxwell sat next to one another at the head table where all of the officers were seated, Maxwell practically in Charles’ lap as his legs crossed and he draped a knee over Charles’. Charles smiled at the feeling, pouring the other man another glass of cognac from the bottle they had shared. He had three bottles left, and he couldn’t take them back to the States in his luggage. 

Charles tuned out Pierce’s speech, his thanking and mocking of General Clayton, he even ignored the racy photographs of General Clayton and Major Houlihan that were projected in color on the movie screen set up at the back of the mess tent. All that mattered in his world was Maxwell.

When everyone began to sing a loud, dissonant rendition of Auld Lang Syne, Charles smiled at Maxwell, gripping his hand tightly beneath the table. Maxwell smiled back, his eyes shimmering with eyeshadow as he batted long, mascara painted lashes. Clayton seemed to be ignoring them, but Burns and Houlihan were casting them wary, suspicious looks. 

It didn’t matter, nothing here mattered anymore. They were going _home_. These people did not matter. 

When an aide came in and passed a note to General Clayton, Charles thought that perhaps it was the news that the ceasefire had gone through. He prepared to kiss Maxwell, in front of everyone, and could see the same thought occur to the other man.

“Hold it, hold it!” The General stood, holding up his hand, the song petering out through the various voices as the turned to him in confusion. “May I have your attention, please.” He fiddled with the paper, and Charles felt his heart sink. “I just received a communique from CINCOMPAC. There is no ceasefire.”

Charles sighed, pouring another drink of cognac for himself and Maxwell, who looked like he might very well start crying as he stared up at Charles. 

Beneath the table, Charles reached out and took the other man’s hand in his own and gave a small squeeze, reassuring.

This changed nothing. It would just take longer for them to get home. But they would. Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Season 1


	10. Divided We Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> General Clayton has concerns about the 4077th, the unfortunate victim of their madness, Captain Hildebrand, ends up a captive audience to Charles' surgical process.

“Look, okay, I know it’s dumb to be in here.” Colonel Blake said, wearing his robe and fishing lure hat. Charles was not amused as he stood in the showers, surrounded by the other surgeons. Jones and Black seemed equally unamused at the prospect of working their shifts in O.R. and post-op and then being dragged away from sleep to have a secret meeting. 

“You could have chosen a more picturesque location,” Charles said with a sigh, rubbing his eyes. “Might I suggest the romantic, moonlit scenery of the latrines?”

“Ha ha, Winchester,” Blake whispered. “But seriously. Clayton sent this joker Hildebrand to spy on us, and I figured the shower was the safest place to meet, right?”

“Absolutely,” Pierce said, still bleary-eyed and groggy. “Nobody comes in here, just ask Ugly John.”

Blake reached out and pulled the lever for the shower, “To cover our voices.”

“What?” Jones called out, mockingly.

“To cover our-” Blake sighed and glared at the surgeon. 

“You got a case of galloping paranoia,” McIntyre said with a grin.

“Nevermind,” Blake whispered. “Now look, I’m the only one who knows this guy’s a psychiatrist.”

Pierce gave Blake a once over, in his blue and white patterned robe, his fishing hat studded with lures, and an expression of pure terror. “And you still got the guts to wear that?”

“Pierce, can you lay off the wisecracks for just five minutes?”

“Oh, he always acts funny in a men’s shower,” McIntyre defended, a small smirk curling his lips.

“Look, what I’m asking you guys is…” Blake paused. “Nah, make that commanding-”

“Keep it asking,” Pierce shot back, looking concerned.

“For Pete’s sakes, can all of my surgeons stop acting like a corral of horse’s patoots while Hildebrand is here, or sure as God made little green apples, he’s gonna break us up. I don’t think any of us really want that to happen.” He glanced at the group he had gathered. “I mean, as screwy as this outfit is, better the devil you know, right?”

“I am sure I do not know what you mean,” Charles said as he muffled a yawn in his wrist. “I am the model of a modern Major.”

Pierce gave Charles’ shoulder a weak smack, no real malice or intent to hurt behind it. “You’ve got our word, Henry. Right, men?”

“Right,” The group chorused.

“Henry?” Black said, his Australian drawl even more drawn out with exhaustion. 

“Yeah?”

“Your fly is closed.”

“Oh, cut that out!” Blake hissed, turning off the shower. “Winchester.” Charles sighed and looked at the man. “Keep an eye on Klinger. Make sure he doesn’t go bucking for his section 8, or this man might actually give it to him.”

* * *

“At least it’s tasteful?” Charles said as he stood in line with the others, being served by Maxwell, who had the misfortune to draw KP. He was wearing what was once fatigues. 

“Is that a flapper dress?” Captain Hildebrand asked, staring at the Corporal with wide eyes.

“The sequins are old bits of tin foil I washed off after they were used in the kitchens.” Maxwell said with a smile. “Got some eggs,” some powdered eggs were slopped into the trays. “Some herb roasted sausage,” some dry, nearly burnt links of sausage that Charles was certain was actually cooked shoe leather, disguised as sausage. “And some golden toast from home made loaves.” Maxwell placed two slices of what was clearly surplus army issue bread on their trays. “Coffee is over there.” He gestured for the benefit of the new Captain. 

“Thank you, Corporal.”

“Have a good one, Major,” The man smiled at Charles, but didn’t say anything more as he moved on to continue serving the rest of those who had decided to punish themselves with breakfast.

“And what is your specialty, Captain?” Winchester asked, trying to play along with the farce that Blake insisted on carrying out. 

“Gynecology,” Blake provided, at the same time that Hildebrand said, “Nose and Throat.”

“… How interesting.” Charles said, obviously not buying either lie before he sat down. Hildebrand sat beside him, much to Charles’ displeasure. He felt himself become even more exhausted at the sight of Burns, Pierce, and McIntyre sitting down at the table as well. 

“Captain Hildebrand, Frank Burns, Hawkeye Pierce, Trapper McIntyre, all three of us general surgeons,” Pierce introduced himself.

“Captain Hildebrand,” Charles gestured to the man. “Nose, throat, and undergarments.”

“I take it your practice is located in a shopping mall,” Pierce said with a twitch to his lips.

“Right over Bergdorf’s,” Charles poured some salt and pepper on his powdered eggs. 

Captain Hildebrand gave him a look, but didn’t reply, instead starting to pile eggs onto his stale toast. 

“Hey, Frank,” McIntyre started, looking at the man. “I took a look at that kid whose bowel you resected this morning,” Charles braced himself, giving his fellow Bostonian a look. “That was some job.”

Frank paused, processing the words. “What was wrong with it?”

“Not a thing, you ought to put your monogram on that scar, Frank. That was a thing of beauty.” Pierce said, jostling Frank’s shoulder with his own in a companionable way that looked absolutely bizarre. 

Burns began to wiggle in his seat in delight at being complimented. “Well, I don’t like to brag, but that _is_ my specialty.”

“Oh, I mean to tell you,” McIntyre smirked. “One look, and I can see your hand all over that gut.”

“Uh, Major, may I have the butter, please?” Pierce called out, and Charles handed him the bowl. Even if it was for the Captain Hildebrand, he was relieved at the sound of gracious manners.

“The men are always complimenting each other’s work,” Blake said, with a nervous smile at Hildebrand. 

“We’re thinking of going into practice together when we get home,” Pierce provided. “Isn’t that right, Trap?”

“We’re gonna open our own clinic,” McIntyre nodded. 

“That’s right, the three of us war buddies would run the place,” Burns smiled.

“Three? Not four?” Hildebrand glanced at Charles, who rolled his eyes slightly.

“Oh, well…” Burns’ eyes gleamed. “Charles would go ahead and open his own place, probably keel Corporal Klinger as his nurse.”

“Ah, is she a lovely girl?” Hildebrand asked, looking at Charles curiously.

“He’s the one who served us this feast.” Pierce gestured over Hildebrand’s shoulder to Klinger. “A great corpsman, almost as good of a nurse.”

Charles glared at the three, giving a snide chuckle at that. “Very funny.” It felt like the only way out was to play along. “I wouldn’t dream of having Corporal Klinger as my nurse. He’s much better as a receptionist.”

Everyone laughed at that, even if Charles felt like he was forcing himself to laugh along, his eyes boring holes in Pierce’s head.

* * *

Charles had never been so relieved for wounded. 

“Sew him up, give him his bill,” Charles said as he moved from his latest table. “Corporal, darling, bring that man over there.”

“Yes sir, Major baby,” Maxwell said as he lifted the litter onto the indicated table. 

Captain Hildebrand watched the exchange, but Charles simply turned to the man. “If you plan to be here, you best plan to work,” He held out his hands. “Gloves.”

Hildebrand fumbled with the medium sized gloves, and Charles scowled behind his mask. “Wrong size, wrong size.”

“I’m sorry, Major-”

“Sorry does not help this young man.” Charles turned. “Nurse, gloves.”

“Got an emergency in triage, Major.”

“Corporal Klinger-” Maxwell was over in a heartbeat. 

“I gotcha, Major.” He grabbed the large gloves and easily rolled them over Charles’ hands. “I’ll find you a nurse to spare.”

“No, you stay here, assist Captain Hildebrand.” Charles ordered, and Maxwell saluted. 

“You sterile, Captain?” Maxwell asked, already getting himself ready, grabbing a gown for himself, and then for Hildebrand.

“Yes, of course.” Hildebrand’s hands were shaking. It was cruel of Charles, he knew, to insist the man assist him, but with the number of wounded trickling down, he could afford to make the Captain uncomfortable, have him face the bloody reality of their situation.

“Take these.” Maxwell put the gloves on Hildebrand’s hands, oblivious to the fact that the man wasn’t actually a surgeon. 

“Corporal, are you even qualified?” Hildebrand asked, his voice an octave higher with fear. 

Maxwell gave a nervous laugh, still uncomfortable about blood and guts, but comfortable and trusting enough with Charles that he would do this for him. “Everyone here doubles up, if you stick around then you’ll learn too.”

Captain Hildebrand’s face paled as Charles held out his hand. “Scalpel, Corporal.”

“Scalpel,” Maxwell handed it over. 

“Metzenbaum scissors.”

“That’s the one with the little curve?”

“Precisely, darling,” Charles praised gently, accepting the scissors. 

They worked slower than it would be with a nurse, and without a captive audience, but Charles was quick to praise Maxwell, and to explain to Hildebrand what was going on. “Captain, if you could grab that bulb, provide me with some suction.”

Hildebrand hesitated, and Maxwell reached over. “I got it, Captain,” He smiled behind his mask, his dark eyes reassuring. “It’s rough the first time, you don’t get used to it, you just get faster.”

Charles watched as the blood was suctioned away, finishing up his stitches on the tender intestines of the unfortunate soldier, before he carefully pulled back. “Can you can help me close, Corporal?”

“You want me to hold the mustard?” Maxwell asked, a feeble attempt at a joke to keep his mind off of the fact that he had just been wrist deep in a man’s body.

“And the onions, my stomach has been a bit delicate as of late.” Charles teased back. “You’ve done beautifully, Corporal.”

Maxwell smiled and passed over sutures and assisted Charles as best as he could, Hildebrand stumbling away from the table and out the door. 

“What’s up with him? He’s a surgeon, right? This stuff shouldn’t bother him, right?”

“No’tall, Corporal,” Charles chuckled. “I will tell you about him later.”

“You owe me for this, Major.” Maxwell said, shucking off gloves and peeling Charles’ own off the man’s long fingers. “I expect payment in my tent, two pairs of nylons sounds like a good price.”

“You severely underestimate the worth of your services as a nurse, Corporal.”

“Not qualified as a nurse, Major.”

“Yet.” Charles smiled behind his mask, looking around to see that Burns and Blake were the only two still working on patients, closing them up quickly, before he left the surgery to clean up, Maxwell following behind him. “You certainly would make a good nurse.”

“Yeah, I’m a regular Flo Nightingale, huh, Major?”

There was no one in the scrub room, and Charles smiled, leaning down to kiss Maxwell’s lips softly. “Of course I believe that, pet.”

The two of them walked out into the compound, Charles massaging his own wrists as Pierce and McIntyre shuddered in the crisp cold of the morning and made their way towards the Swamp. Charles waited for a moment in the brisk chill, Maxwell shivering in his thin nurse’s uniform and pressing close to Charles’ side, leeching the man’s warmth as they walked through the compound together. 

It had stopped being an unusual sight for them, and everyone kept quiet about any suspicions they had. The friendship was odd, but it made sense, with the two most desperate to get out of the Army gravitating towards one another and latching on. Charles would never admit that he was terrified, every day of his life at the 4077th, but Maxwell made him braver, made him feel like he was less alone in a crowded camp. 

“Eugh, you _degenerates_ ,” Burns sniped as he stepped out of post-op, walking quickly along with Houlihan towards the two. 

“A gentleman keeps a lady warm.” Charles said simply. 

“ _That_ is not a _lady_ ,” Houlihan sniped, clearly personally offended by the comparison.

“Oh?” Charles hummed, looking down at Maxwell, who was ignoring the other two Majors as best as he could. Before Charles could respond, Colonel Blake came jogging over, and a jeep carrying General Clayton pulled up.

“Ten-hut!” Burns shouted, and while he, Houlihan, and Blake saluted, Charles couldn’t find it in himself to lift his arm as well.

“Thought I might have a word with Captain Hildebrand,” Clayton said to Blake, looking at the other man with a stern gaze. 

“Oh, uh… Captain Brildehan - Hildebrand!” Blake corrected himself quickly. “Yes, sir, uh well, I don’t know where he is. He’s, uh…” Blake swallowed thickly. “He’s probably at the, um…”

“Over here.” Pierce’s voice carried easily over the compound as the group turned towards the Swamp and his voice. “Mon generale.”

Entering the tent, Charles couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of Captain Hildebrand sitting with Captains Black and Jones. Black was pouring the man a martini, while Jones lounged back in his surgical scrubs, sipping at his own. 

“Captain Hildebrand!” General Clayton snapped, clearly unamused.

“Mmm!” The Captain took another sip from his drink. “These guys make a gin that can melt your dog tags.”

“It’s from a recipe first brewed in Hermann Goering’s navel.” Pierce said, pride colouring his tone. “It’s been passed down from war to war.”

“You had a mission here,” General Clayton said, trying to remain stern.

“I can give you your report!”

“Report, what report?” Maxwell whispered to Charles, who was already pulling his own cognac from his trunk, pouring a glass for Maxwell, himself, and offering the bottle to the General.

“Shh, I wish to listen,” Charles murmured.

“In my short stay here I have seen textbook examples of neuroses, psychoses, I have seen voyeruism, fetishism, and a few “isms” I never even heard of.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Maxwell said as he posed on the edge of Charles’ bed. “I do try.”

“He’s not even the least of it!” Hildebrand pointed to Maxwell, then went on. “And let me tell you this, General. These impossible people, are in an impossible place, doing totally impossible work. They’re mad, quite mad, all of them. And the only act that I could think of that would be madder still would be breaking them up!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter that takes place in Season 2.


	11. L.I.P. (Local Indigenous Personnel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles has a case of sour grapes when he hears about a marriage made in Korea, knowing that his own relationship with Maxwell might never see the same recognition.

“At what point,” Burns started, gritting his teeth as he spoke, glaring at the Swamp at large. “Did Corporal Klinger get promoted to officer?”

“Didn’t you hear, sir?” Maxwell said as he hemmed the skirt of one of his dresses, he had taken to shortening the hemlines, something that Charles was quite fascinated by. 

“Hear what?”

“The locals have begun worshiping me as a god.” Maxwell said casually, gesturing to Charles who was seated at his own desk, writing a letter to a lawyer back in Boston. “Major Winchester here is just writing home about it.”

“Of course,” Charles hummed as he continued to write, focus unbroken. 

“Oh… _You_.” Burns sat down at his own desk, scowling as he picked up his letter. “This is the last straw!” He looked at McIntyre and Pierce. “You’ve been reading my letter.”

“What letter, Frank?”

“This letter, I’m writing to my wife!” Frank snapped. “I always pull a hair out and place it on the paper, and that hair is gone!”

“Eugh, disgusting, Burns,” Charles turned his attention to the man. 

“I got my own wife to write.”

Charles chuckled at that, rolling his eyes. “Let me guess, McIntyre,” He leaned back, imitating McIntyre’s less refined Boston accent. “My darling, I’m exhausted. I’ve done eleven major operations in the last two days.”

“You _did_ read it!” Burns stood up sharply, stalking towards Charles, who slowly stood as well, towering over the other man and staring down his nose at him. “You, you, _queer_!”

Charles’ eyes narrowed, his veins running cold at the accusation thrown at him. He wouldn’t throw a punch at Burns, but that didn’t stop him from reaching out with a broad hand and grabbing the collar of the other man’s shirt. “Major Burns, I would like to remind you that you do not outrank me, and that I dislike being called such terms by my professional colleagues.”

“Well, well, it’s what you are!” Burns squirmed like a worm on a hook in Charles’ grip, staring up at the other man and trying desperately to escape the iron grip he had on him. “Why else would you spend time with a _transvestite_.”

“Why would anyone spend time with _you_ , Burns? People find things in common frequently. Just because Major Houlihan has found that she has narcissistic small-mindedness in common with you doesn’t make you _correct_.”

The door to the swamp opened and Sergeant Walker entered, hesitating at the sight of Charles lifting Burns just enough that the man’s toes barely touched the ground. 

“Carry on, Sergeant, nothing to see here.” Charles said simply, not releasing his grip on Burns. 

The man turned his eyes to Pierce, obeying the order with relative ease. “Uh… Doc, can I see you? It’s about a patient outside.”

“I’d like to, Phil, but right now I’m on drunk duty.” Pierce said, smirking at Burns and Charles. “Major Burns is the ranking medical officer here.” 

“I’d be delighted to see the patient.” Burns’ voice was tight and high pitched as he struggled to escape.

“Please, Hawkeye, it’s important.” Sergeant Walker said softly, and Pierce stood, understanding the urgency in the tone.

“Don’t kill him while I’m outside, Chuckles,” Pierce said simply. “I’ll be right back.”

“Klinger, you’re just going to sit there and watch this?” McIntyre asked with a grin.

“Haven’t seen a good knock-em-down-drag-em-out fight in a while, not since the underground boxing rings in Toledo,” Maxwell pulled out a cigar, one of the few that he had managed to save from the latest box his family had sent him, he bit off the end then used Charles’ matches to light it up. “This is even better.”

“Just like you to make Chuckles fight for your honor.” McIntyre laughed, leaning back as well to watch the sight before them. 

“I would hardly use my fists to do anything to Major Burns, McIntyre.” Charles said amiably. Burns relaxed a bit, giving a nervous giggle, only to yelp when he was thrown onto his own cot, collapsing the feeble wooden legs keeping it up and sending the man, his mattress, and blankets collapsing to the ground.

“Spoil sport,” Maxwell said as he puffed at his cigar, offering it to Charles as a consolation prize. Charles hesitated, but took a couple of puffs from the cheap cigar. 

He must have made quite the sight, they both must have. Maxwell in his pink silk dressing gown and negligee, Charles with the swarthy Toledoan’s cigar between his lips, looking less than rumpled in his fatigues as he sat down beside Maxwell on the bed.

“Colonel Blake will hear about this!” Burns shouted as he stumbled to his feet.

“Hear about what? You tripped over your laces and into your cot.” McIntyre said simply.

“Yeah, Major Burns, better be careful about that.” Maxwell said, smiling as he accepted his cigar back from Charles.

Burns let out a wordless huff and stormed out of the tent.

“Alright, Major,” Maxwell stood, looking at Charles. “I’m on shift first thing, gotta get my beauty rest, put in my curlers, you know.”

“What am I, chopped liver?”

“Goodnight, Captain Liver.” Maxwell said, smirking at the man. 

“Goodnight, Corporal,” Charles said with a nod to the other man. “I will see you tomorrow, likely around lunch time, I’m on shift in an hour.”

McIntyre watched Maxwell sashay out of the tent, before he slid over to sit in Charles’ chair beside the man’s desk. “Okay, Chuckles, lay it on me. What’s up with you and Klinger?”

“I am sure I do not know what you mean.” Charles said, snatching his letter from the desk so that McIntyre couldn’t see. 

“Don’t go playing that with me, I know whoopee when I see it.” He grinned that charming Boston boy grin that Charles was far too old to fall for like he once would have. “I majored in it in med school.”

“Funny, I did not know you were a gynecologist.” Charles looked over his letter for spelling and grammatical errors, knowing that Honoria would never let him live it down if there was one. 

“Ha ha,” McIntyre grinned even more widely. “Frank’s right, isn’t he, you’re queer for him?”

Charles stiffened and glared at the man. “You agree with _Frank Burns_?”

“Not in the way you’re thinkin’.” McIntyre grinned. “Didn’t know Klinger swung that way.”

“The dresses were not a clear indication?”

“Oh, sure, but we all thought it was a dodge.”

“McIntyre,” Charles turned to the other man. “As far as the rest of this camp is concerned, it _is_ only a dodge.” He leaned in and stared at the other Bostonian’s eyes. “Or else I will ruin you.”

“Chuckles, you and I don’t get along all the time,” McIntyre laughed. “But you’re the only other poor slob from Boston in this sorry camp, and I’d hate to make a brother hate me.”

Pierce entered the tent again, and Charles and McIntyre looked over, seeing the man look exhausted and frustrated.

“VD?” McIntyre asked.

“No, worse,” Pierce sat down on his bed, rubbing his eyes. “Phil Walker shacked up with a Korean girl, Kim, and now they have a baby together. He wants to take her back to the states.”

Charles blinked at the man before he scowled. “You cannot be serious.”

“Yeah. He is.”

“Jesus…” McIntyre rubbed at his jaw. “What’re you gonna do, Hawk?”

“Since he can’t smuggle them back in his luggage there’s only one thing I _can_ do.” Pierce looked thoughtfully into the middle distance. “I gotta figure out a way to get them married… Proper married. Not married by the cook married.”

“I wish you luck in your endeavors.”

“Oh, come on, Charles, you gotta help.” McIntyre looked at him. “We’re all in this together.”

“Since when did I become part of this _we_?” Charles asked, startled by the sudden camaraderie. 

“Since you grew a human side.” Pierce said with a grin. “I think I know how you can help.”

Charles scowled before he rolled his eyes. “Fine. I suppose that all couples have the equal right to be unhappily married.”

“How would you know, you’re a confirmed bachelor.”

* * *

It took some horse trading, some this for that, and Charles had begged Maxwell for some nylons he could send to a General’s secretary in Tokyo, but he managed to get Pierce a name. Lieutenant Willis, CID. 

When Maxwell came to him while he was on duty in post-op, prepared to gossip about the man that had showed up in Pierce’s tent, he couldn’t help but be curious. 

“Bronx, burly, and thick as a rock.” Maxwell said as Charles administered the latest sedative to one of the patients.

“Be a dear, make a note on the chart.”

“Yes, sir,” Maxwell did as he was told, standing in his red dress and black pillbox hat and veil, charming and slim and looking pretty as a picture. “When I checked he was drinking with Hawkeye.”

“If he is too drunk to sign that paperwork I will strangle Pierce.” Charles said with a frustrated sigh, moving back to his desk as he signed off on the note Maxwell wrote.

“What’s gotten into you, Major? You’ve been in a foul mood ever since this whole Walker thing.”

Charles sighed and glanced around. Nurse Schneider was occupied with her own work and Maxwell was off shift, he could do what he pleased. “Just… It is so laughably easy to get married for these young men. Even with the Army trying it’s hardest to prevent it. Love and devotion and a few slips of paperwork and a chaplain and they can just go home to their happily ever after.”

Maxwell stared at him, those dark eyes searching Charles’ own. “You’re jealous.”

A broad palm gently brushed over Maxwell’s waist, a brief gesture, before he pulled away. “Hardly.” He murmured. 

“No, you are,” Maxwell smiled. “And you’re just being all sour grapes about it to convince yourself that you don’t want that. Nice little wedding and the house with picket fence and everything.”

“I already have a house. And the fence is wrought iron, not white painted wood.”

“You’re deflecting,” Maxwell smiled, taking Charles’ hand gently. “Come on, you’re off shift in a minute, I saw Major Burns getting ready in Major Houlihan’s tent. Step outside with me?”

They stepped outside, Charles telling Lieutenant Schneider that he was catching some fresh air and would be right outside the door. She smiled and nodded, perhaps she could sense that Charles, in his poor mood, took comfort in Maxwell’s presence and words. 

Standing outside in his kitten heels and simple dress, Maxwell looked quite beautiful in the half-light over the door, darkness edging his face and making him seem more and more like something out of a book of Arabian fairy stories. 

“You’re jealous that they can get married… But we can’t.”

“We can’t, Maxwell,” Charles said with a scowl. “The benefit that is extended to anyone else, interracial, strangers, unhappy men and women are able to marry with ease. But you and I… No church would recognize us, no government would issue us a marriage license.”

“So we have a wedding of our own,” Maxwell smiled up at Charles. “Just something for our friends and family, the people that matter, who understand.” He took the man’s broad palm in his own smaller, calloused hands and kissed his knuckles, rubbing his cheek against Charles’ knuckles like a demanding cat. “Marriage is more than just all of that. It’s… If we’re devoted to each other that’s what matters. There will always be the Walkers and Burns and McIntyres of the world, but we don’t have to be like them.” Dark eyes caught Charles’ own gaze and held him captive, his sour mood turning sweeter, like sugar added to lemonade, the longer he stood with Maxwell’s gentle affections. 

“Come on, go back in, finish up, hand everything over to Burns, then come by my tent and we’ll talk more.” Maxwell smiled broadly. “Maybe even more than talk.”

Charles choked on his own breath for a moment before he cleared his throat and nodded. “Of course. I will see you momentarily.”

He had never rushed through handing patients off to another doctor so quickly, but he worried that waiting might make Maxwell change his mind. He raced to the Swamp, hoping to get a quick shave (Maxwell always did like his aftershave) and change out of his fatigues into his robe and pajamas, only to walk in on McIntyre and Pierce staring down at an unconscious man on Burns’ bed.

“What is _that_?” He asked, looking down at the heap. 

“Willis.” Pierce provided, downing the last of his gin. “We’re just figuring out what to do with him. He won’t okay the Walker application.”

Charles looked at Pierce and then at the man on the ground. “What were you thinking?”

“We were thinking a few nurses and some pictures.” McIntyre said with a grin. “To get him to agree.”

A few moments of thought before a sly, curling smirk stole across Charles’ lips. 

“Uh-oh, we know that look.” Pierce grinned as he looked at Charles. “What is it?”

“Give me five minutes, and get O’Reilly’s camera.”

Within five minutes, Maxwell was walking into the Swamp, giggling like a delighted schoolgirl as he adjusted his negligee and robe. He stood in black pumps with feathery pom-poms on the toes, and makeup done up to perfection around his eyes and lips. O’Reilly had the camera and the two Captains grinned as Charles stepped aside, and they all directed Maxwell to pose with the unconscious man.

“Perfect, Klinger, you’re a queen among men,” Pierce said with a grin.

“Good to be appreciated, and I’m gonna need some of those photos, you know, to send to General MacArthur.”

“Of course,” Pierce saluted the Corporal. “Go forth and prosper.”

“I will, Captain. Major?”

“I will be a moment, Corporal, please keep the kettle on for me.” Charles smirked. “I wish to see the good Lieutenant’s reaction to our hard work.”

Maxwell laughed, grinning at Charles and giving a brief wink. “Alright, see you in a bit, Major.”

McIntyre smirked as he watched the exchange, while Pierce grabbed a small bottle of smelling salts and held it under Willis’ nose. Charles decided to ignore the man’s smug look, instead focusing on playing his part of innocent observer to the Lieutenant’s own debauchery.

* * *

“...in sickness and in health, till death do you part?”

“I do.” Walker murmured, looking at Kim as she smiled, holding a bouquet of bright orange and yellow wildflowers. She was a vision in dusky pink, smiling delightedly at her groom. 

Charles had to admit that it was charming. A small, quaint gathering of friends, witnessing a love that had blossomed in war time. Even his quiet resentment couldn’t withstand the sight, especially not with Maxwell clinging to his arm with one hand, and wiping tears from his eyes with another, Charles’ monogrammed handkerchief dabbing around Maxwell’s mascara. 

“The ring?” Father Mulcahy asked, and Pierce smiled, providing the ring to Walker. “With this ring…” He gently prompted.

“With this ring, I thee wed.” Walker finished quickly, sliding the ring onto his bride’s finger, kissing her hand gently. 

“I now pronounce you husband and wife, you may kiss the bride.”

They kissed, brief and sweet, and Kim smiled in delight as she threw the bouquet within the cramped mess tent.

Maxwell snatched the bouquet out of the air, laughing and grinning. “Guys, guys!” Charles laughed as he looked down at the man, dressed in a traditional Korean gown and a thin silk veil, clutching the flowers close. “I caught the bouquet!” 

“You’re up, Charles.” McIntyre teased, and the tent erupted in good-natured laughter, Charles joining in even as he smiled at Maxwell, who refused to let go of his prize.

They might not be the next ones to marry… But one day it would be so, even if it was in their own odd little way.


	12. Carry On, Winchester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles is stuck at the 4077th in the middle of an epidemic, while Pierce gives the battalion aid station an extra set of hands.
> 
> Based off of "Carry on Hawkeye" and "The Yalu Brick Road".

“Attention. All personnel. Because of the epidemic, tonight’s broken film which has not arrived yet is canceled. A reminder from Colonel Blake, due to the flu kindly refrain from kissing anyone unless absolutely necessary.” The announcement rang through the entire 4077th and Charles couldn’t help but scowl as he worked, his fingers steady even his legs trembled with exhaustion.

Years in Boston had made him relatively immune to the flu, but exhaustion was something that he couldn’t handle. Pierce had gone to the battalion aid station, they had struggled through their own epidemic in the cold of winter, with even more rotten conditions than the 4077th. It was just him and Burns now, with McIntyre, Blake, and Jones out of commission, being relegated to the Swamp for rest and recovery. While Black was still struggling through his own duties as anesthesiologist, Charles was sure he wouldn’t last for much longer and Charles wasn’t sure who he would be able to get to replace the man. Likely they’d have to start using curare to tend to the men, and Charles had never liked that practice as a rule. 

“O’Reilly!” Charles called out, watching Burns sway as his forehead was mopped for the third time in the last ten minutes. The company clerk peered into the O.R., a mask held over his face as he did so. “When does Pierce return?” Charles asked, sewing up the latest patient and moving over to the next, shucking his gloves and pulling on a new pair as quickly as he could. 

“He’s stuck at the aid station, they’re experiencing heavy fire and more casualties and flu cases,” O’Reilly said, sounding frantic. “We’re looking at a deluge in the next hour, he at least gave us some warning.”

“I do not need warning, I need another doctor!” Charles shouted, looking up. “Call Seoul, call the 8063, call Tokyo if you have to, I need other doctors, I am down three and soon to be four!”

“I don’t know about you, fella, but I’m…” Burns’ eyes trailed upwards to the lights. “The… lights…” Charles turned just in time to see the man’s eyes roll back into his head as he slumped over the open patient.

“Frank!” Houlihan shouted, and moved towards her lover.

Charles shouted. “Stay where you are, don’t leave the table!” He turned to look at Burns’ work. “All he needs is closing,” Charles looked at Margaret. “Can you close on your own?”

“I… I think so.”

“Have Anderson assist.” Charles turned towards his own patient. “And round up any personnel that is not sick or dying, we need to perform a lesson in nursing in the O.R. for every corpsman, mechanic, KP officer, and anyone else we can round up who is not running a fever.”

“Doctor, we can’t do that, they have no medical training.”

“And I have no other doctors I can rely on and only one anesthesiologist. Everyone will have to pull double duty until we get help!” Charles rarely raised his voice, he did not like shouting at the nurses, not when he relied so heavily on them, but with Burns now out of commission, sooner than Charles had hoped, he ran out of options. “Major Houlihan, any of your nurses that are still healthy enough will be temporarily promoted to Doctor.”

Houlihan froze in her work sewing up Burns’ patient. “I… We can’t.”

“You watch us work every day, you can do whatever is basic, I will assist where I can, but I cannot roller skate from table to table.”

* * *

“General, I am currently elbow deep in a patient while my fellow doctors are running 103 degree fevers.” Charles said into the mouthpiece of the phone that O’Reilly was holding to his head. “I need assistance, anyone!” Charles flinched as blood spurted up from an artery. “Suction, Father Mulcahy, suction, there’s a good man.” Charles turned his attention back to the call. “Jack the Ripper would be an improvement to what I am currently dealing with, General.”

“Well, Major, let me check up, I should be able to get someone there within, um…” A rustling on the other end. “Three days.”

“ _Days_?” Charles balked. “General, I have nothing but the utmost respect for you, your rank, and your skills as a medical man, but in this moment I wish you were _here_.” Charles lifted his head and nodded to O’Reilly, who hung up the phone on his behalf. 

“Well?” Houlihan asked from her own table, working on her sixth young man with shrapnel in his belly. 

“We have been forsaken by any higher power that might be.” Charles said simply. “What we have is what we have for at least the next three days. Unless Pierce manages to return in a timely manner, and that might not be the case, we are all that we have.”

A moment of terrified silence, everyone in the room feeling the weight of what they were about to undertake, before Houlihan set her shoulders and said, “We’ll make it through this, all of us, we’ve made it through worse scrapes than this.”

“Remind me of them, Major?” Sergeant Zale asked from where he was currently playing male nurse for Nurse Able as she attempted to re-sect some bowel on her own. 

Houlihan was silent for a long moment before she said, “I really can’t think of any right now, Sergeant.”

“O’Reilly,” Charles looked at the young clerk. “Expand your search. Okinawa, Pusan, anywhere we could dig up a surgeon. I do not care if they are North Korean prisoners, I need another surgeon.”

“Yes, sir.” O’Reilly said simply. “Um… What do we do for dinner?”

“Dinner?”

“Half of KP is out of commission, it’s just Klinger now.”

“Milk, orange juice, and peanut butter sandwiches should be fine,” Charles said. “We are all going to learn how to eat on our feet.”

* * *

Charles sat in the scrub room, using the wall to support him as he stared at the sink, looking pale and feverish when Maxwell entered with a glass of powdered orange juice in hand. 

“Major…” Maxwell whispered, not wanting anyone to overhear any whispered intimacies. 

“Yes, Corporal?” Charles held out his hand, shakily accepting the orange juice. 

“You don’t look so good.” Maxwell kissed his forehead, frowning when he pulled back. “You’re running a fever, Major.”

“I know,” Charles whispered. “Major Houlihan gave me a shot for the flu. It worked. I now have it.”

“You can’t operate.” Maxwell whispered softly.

“I _have_ to,” Charles said as he rested his face against Maxwell’s hands. “O’Reilly just informed me that we are getting casualties in the next fifteen minutes. I need blood from everyone, and I will be overseeing the _cook_ performing surgery at this rate.”

Maxwell unwrapped the red bandanna from his neck and wetted it with cool water, holding it to Charles’ forehead gently, mopping at the beads of sweat dripping from his scalp, forehead, jaw, everything soaking in the collar of his white surgical scrubs. Charles stared at Maxwell, dressed in his starched white nurse’s uniform. He was so small, but so strong, his calloused fingers gripping Charles’ shoulder, keeping him upright as he continued to dab and cool Charles’ feverish skin. 

“I’ll assist you, Major.” Maxwell whispered, gently.

“Major Houlihan-”

“Major Houlihan can’t hold you up if you need someone to lean on, she’s stong, but not that strong.” He kissed Charles’ forehead again gently. “Drink your orange juice, I’ll get everyone gathered up, then I’ll be back here to scrub up.”

“Maxwell?” Charles called out, holding the man’s bandanna and staring at him as he stood in the doorway, the golden twilight filtering in, illuminating dark skin beautifully. “When this is over, I am putting in a recommendation that you be trained as a nurse.”

“Got a dirty fantasy you picked up from Hawkeye?” Maxwell smiled, eyes glittering in delight.

“No, just the thought of seeing you in that uniform every day in Boston.”

“I’ll make sure that it’s the first thing that I pack when we get discharged.” Maxwell smiled, blew a kiss, then left, likely to bully some of the still-well into donating blood.

* * *

“Don’t worry, Chuckles, I’m here now, with some backup.” 

“Pierce, I never thought that I would be relieved to hear your voice again,” Charles said, staring at the man as he entered before going back to work. He was leaning against Maxwell, who had at some point abandoned being sterile in order to wrap his arm around Charles, holding him upright with his strong grip.

“Just lean on me, Major, that’s it.” Maxwell whispered. “Can I get a nurse over here! Anyone! Radar!”

“Yeah, Klinger?” O’Reilly said as he stepped in, holding a mask over his face. 

“Scrub up, I need help!”

“You are the Major’s help!”

“I can’t hold him up and pass him tools at the same time.” Maxwell shouted. 

“Scrub up, Radar, that’s an order,” Pierce called out. “If nothing else it’ll get you to wash your hands.”

“I don’t do so good with blood!”

“Scrub up!”

Charles couldn’t speak, he had no energy for it, not when he was focused on not falling over, keeping his hands steady, and breathing. 

“I got you, Major baby,” Maxwell whispered. “I got you.”

“Thank you, pet,” Charles murmured, barely able to form those words. 

Everything went by in a blur. O’Reilly returned, scrubbed and gloved and masked and passing tools to Charles with shaky hands. Pierce blazed through casualties at a clip that astounded Charles, while he had to work on those that could be brought in front of him directly, unable to move from table to table anymore. 

By the time the deluge lifted, Charles had drunk six glasses of orange juice, taken one shot of adrenaline just to keep himself awake, and was barely conscious. When the last patient was removed from in front of him he sank to his knees, Maxwell trying desperately to keep him upright, only to gently help him to the floor. 

“You did good, Major,” Maxwell whispered, gently stroking his jaw, pulling his hand back when Pierce came over to help. “He’s very sick, Captain, he needs to rest.”

“Agreed. Come on, Chuckles, let’s get you to the Swamp.”

“Pierce,” Charles managed. “We get aid on Thursday.”

“It is Thursday, Charles, we worked clean through Tuesday and Wednesday.”

Pierce gripped his shoulder and Maxwell slid an arm under his back, the two of them hauling him upright, then to his feet, slowly guiding him through the motions. “Hey, Chuckles?”

“Yes, Pierce?”

“You did good, better than I thought you would all alone out here,” Pierce smiled. “Better than Frank would have done.”

“Frank saved more lives by being sick,” Charles said simply as he was guided into his bed, Maxwell kneeling beside him, dabbing at his face and forehead, tucking him in gently. 

“Just rest now. I’ve got this.” Pierce gave his shoulder a pat. “I’ll send you a nurse with an obscene prescription.”

“Please do not.” Charles said, before his vision faded and all he could process was the feeling of Maxwell’s hands on his face.


	13. The Life You Save

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a sniper terrorizes the camp, Charles comes face to face with mortality and just how fragile what he has with Maxwell is.
> 
> (A mash up of The Sniper and The Life You Save.)

“Sniper!”

The shout from Pierce made Charles freeze, even as Maxwell dragged him out of the compound and into the supply tent. It was little protection, as with everything in the Mobile Army Surgical Hospital, it was meant to be moved, and as such had no walls to offer any protection behind. Maxwell dragged him behind a stack of supplies, the two of them crouched together, hoping that it would be enough to keep them safe from any stray gunfire. 

“When I said I wanted you to hold me in the supply tent, Major,” Maxwell said with a shaky smile. “I thought it would be much more romantic than the reality.”

Charles clutched him tighter, bundling the smaller man into his lap. He was wearing silver high heels and a sequined silver flapper dress today, the cut flattering his figure quite nicely and the colour making his dark skin seem even more warm and touchable. They sat there, breathing deeply, Maxwell’s nose buried in Charles’ neck as he pressed his own face to Maxwell’s hair. 

“You used a new shampoo.”

“My sister sent it,” Maxwell’s fingers pressed to Charles’ sides. “Honey and orange blossom.”

“Tell her to send more.”

The sound of a vehicle pulling into the camp overcast the sound of shots being fired and making contact. Charles stood, placing Maxwell on his own feet as he did so, his hands resting on the smaller man’s waist gently as he looked out the window of the supply tent. 

“Oh no,” He murmured.

“What is it, Major?”

“An ambulance.”

“Of course we couldn’t get real help,” Maxwell groaned, gripping at Charles’ wrists as the surgeon tried to pull away. “Don’t go out there, Major.”

“I have to, no one is moving out there.” Charles peered towards post op and Blake’s office, seeing no movement.

“Major!” Maxwell grabbed at his shoulders instead. “Five minutes, just wait, Hawkeye and Trap and Blake will come up with a plan.”

“Five minutes might be too late.”

Another shot was fired, and Charles turned to Maxwell, kissing him deeply, drawing him close, before he pulled back. “I will return quickly, stay here, stay safe.” He grabbed a spare crash kit, packed with medical supplies, and raced out into the compound. 

Between the shots being fired and hitting various parts of the compound, Charles could hear Maxwell’s heeled shoes hitting the dirt as he cursed and followed Charles. The truck was opened up for the two of them and they entered, checking over the patient within. 

“Chest wound,” The paramedic said. “I gotta get back to the aid station, Doctor, we got more wounded coming.”

“We have a sniper, as you can tell,” Charles said, hearing another shot hit the outside of the ambulance. “Take them to the 8063rd, they can better care for the wounded right now.”

“What about this one?”

“Corporal, help me get this litter out of here, we will carry him into pre-op ourselves.”

“Right, Major,” Maxwell was shaking, his face two shades paler, but he gripped the handles of the litter at the bottom. “I’ll walk backwards, you walk forwards. I have more practice like that.”

Charles nodded and they braced themselves, waited for a few seconds for another shot, then carefully, quickly, clumsily, climbed out of the ambulance, Maxwell shouting for someone to open the pre-op doors for them. 

It was thirty feet away. That was all. Thirty feet. They could make it. They could. 

A shot.

“Major, get down!”

Another shot. 

“Someone help!” Maxwell shouted, turning towards the pre-op. There was Pierce, McIntyre, racing out. “Not _you_!” Maxwell shouted, trying to duck down. “Fucking doctors and playing hero all the time! You’re gonna get yourselves-”

The impact was a surprise, perhaps it was a surprise to the sniper as well. Charles let out a shout and Pierce and McIntyre’s run turned into a full sprint as Maxwell fell to the ground, blood gushing up from his chest. 

“Corporal!” Charles shouted, eyes wide in terror, even as he gripped his end of the litter tighter. 

“I got him, I got him!” McIntyre hefted Maxwell into his arms, and Charles looked at Pierce as the other man grabbed the end of the litter, hauling it along with Charles into pre-op. “Nurse, scrub up, we gotta get Klinger into surgery!” McIntyre placed Maxwell down, the young man shaking as shock took hold, making his pupils swallow his irises. 

“You will be fine, Maxwell,” Charles said as he worked beside McIntyre on the other injured soldier. “I promise. You will be fine.” 

“Major, I’m scared.” Maxwell managed, choking on his own breath around a collapsed lung.

“I know, Maxwell,” Charles whispered, reaching out to brush some hair from the corporal’s face. “I am too.”

They got into O.R. after Charles did the fastest scrub of his life, his heart pounding as he watched as Captain Black put Maxwell under, dark eyes fluttering closed as he breathed in the anesthesia. 

“McIntyre, take this boy,” Charles said as he pulled on gloves. “Kellye, get over here, help me with the Corporal.” 

“Yes, Doctor,” She looked at him and moved to assist, while McIntyre took the patient from the ambulance, Nurse Able helping him put his gloves on. 

Cutting open Maxwell was the hardest thing that Charles had ever done. His hands did not shake or tremble, but he was sweating through his scrubs more than when he had his fever. He tried to focus only on the task. Remove the bullet, inflate the lung, close. It was a simple wound, Maxwell would be fine. 

“Major, his pulse is shocky,” Kellye said, calmly, looking down at the recording of Maxwell’s pulse.

“That can’t be,” Charles said with a growl. “He’s fine, I have eyes on the bullet.”

“He can’t breathe properly, Charles, he grew up with pneumonia every year, his lungs are scarred.”

Charles froze, and for a precious second he didn’t know what to do. 

“He’s crashing, Doctor.”

“No, he can’t be. No. No, no, no, no, no.” Charles looked down. 

“No pulse,” Captain Black said, looking up at him.

Charles’ vision snapped into focus and he looked down, “Kellye, retractor, I’m doing open heart massage.”

There was a crack as Charles worked a hand between two ribs, but they didn’t break, creaking under the pressure as Charles carefully began to massage Maxwell’s heart. 

“Breathe,” He ordered the man. “Kellye, bag him.” She squeezed the bag. “Bag.” He kept massaging. “Bag.” Maxwell’s lashes fanned over his cheeks. 

“Still no pulse.”

“Bag!”

“Charles…” McIntyre called, quiet.

“Shut up, McIntyre, bag!”

A jolt on the pulse machine and Charles kept focusing on the heart cradled tender and vulnerable in his hands. “Bag.” A breath, shallow and weak. “Bag.”

“Got a pulse.” Black said, his fingers resting on Maxwell’s neck. “Weak, but there.”

“Bag.” Charles ordered, focused entirely on his task. “Bag.”

The pulse returned, strengthened, steadied. 

“Bag.” Charles felt his own heart again, certain that in the time that Maxwell’s heart had stopped that his own had failed. 

“He’s back, he’s back.” Captain Black whispered, relieved. 

Charles slid his hand out from between Maxwell’s ribs. “Kellye, give me those pickups.”

* * *

“You are relieved, Major.” Burns said as he stood over Charles. Charles jerked upright, sitting beside Maxwell’s bed in post-op, his fingers laced together as if in prayer, his forehead resting against his hands. The sniper had been dealt with, the Army had gunned the man down with as much efficiency as they could manage. The young North Korean soldier had thought that they were General MacArthur’s base of operations, not realizing that they were a hospital. He sat, now, six beds over, recovering from his own wounds.

“I will stay here.”

“Oh, what is the matter with you, Winchester?” Burns scoffed. “You’ve been hanging around Corporal Klinger’s bed like a ghoul.”

“My graveside manner is better than your bedside manner,” Charles said, refusing to look up at Burns, his eyes fixed on Maxwell’s supine form on the bed. “What do you care, Burns?”

“You’re the one that is getting under foot with the nurses and taking an… An… _inappropriate_ amount of interest in Corporal Klinger!” Burns sneered at him and took aim, firing off his shot with deadly accuracy. “Need I remind you, if it weren’t for your _heroics_ then he wouldn’t have been hurt in the first place.”

Charles stood, whispering to the other Doctor in Post-Op, his fists clenched as he stared at the man. “Let me ask you a question, Dr. Schweitzer.” Charles gritted his teeth, something hurting and vulnerable clawing at his ribcage. “Can you honestly stand there and tell me that you’ve never wondered what it was like?”

“What what was like?” Burns asked, confused.

“What Corporal Klinger went through!” Charles hissed. “He was dead!”

Burns scoffed, “Uh-huh?”

“He was! His heart had stopped, he was not breathing, I had his heart in the palm of my hand and it was not _moving_.” Charles choked on the word, hating himself for being this vulnerable in front of Burns. “Haven’t you the slightest bit of curiosity about what lies beyond?”

“No, I know exactly where I am going, I am a good Baptist man and I know exactly what I need to do and that I will end up in heaven, while you and your hedonistic, heathen ways will go right down to-”

“You may need to cloak yourself in denial, but I am not afraid to face up to the harshest reality of all.” Charles clenched his fist tightly, tempted to risk his own hands in order to punch Burns in the face. 

“Fine, but face it somewhere else, since you’re just sitting around here moping about the fact that _you’re_ the reason that Corporal Klinger got shot.”

It was a low blow, but it hit hard, and Charles froze, staring at the man before he turned and stormed out, not thinking as he walked his way to the motor pool. He wasn’t sure why he started up the engine, or where he was going, but when he made it to the road, he drove past the MP checkpoint and towards the battalion aid station. He needed answers, and an unconscious Maxwell wouldn’t provide them.

* * *

Charles finished closing up his latest patient at the aid station. “Get him on the ambulance.”

Captain Saunders looked up from where he was working on his own patient, “Sure glad you showed up, we’re making half the time, though I still don’t know why you’re here.”

Charles thought of dark skin growing pale and ashen from blood loss, “Actually, it’s not all that clear to me either.” He shucked off his gloves, and pulled on another set. “Uh, are there any more?”

Saunders gestured to the belly wound that he was tending to, “That’s all, except for this boy.”

A Lieutenant called out from the phone, “Major Winchester? Got a phone call for you.”

Charles hesitated, before he went over to the phone, holding it to his ear, “Yes?” He asked, polite as ever.

Colonel Blake’s voice called over the line, “Winchester, what the hell are you doing up there?” 

Charles glanced around the room, ramshackle and shaking with every shell that rocked and cratered the ground, “Taking care of wounded.”

Blake sighed and spoke around a cigar clenched in his teeth, the sound a familiar one by now to Charles, “Do you realize we’re about to get a whole bunch of wounded in here?”

“Of course I do.” Charles said as he looked at the young man that Captain Saunders was tending to. “This is where they come from.”

“Do you also realize you could get yourself killed up there?”

Charles paused, staring off into space, feeling his heart stutter as he thought of experiencing what Maxwell had experienced. The fear had become background by now, the shaking of his legs was steadied only by sheer force of will. “Ah, actually, no, that-that thought hadn’t occurred to me.” He felt his palms sweat at the thought of dying, before Maxwell woke. “Uh, that would be interesting, wouldn’t it?”

“Winchester, you get back here right now!” Blake shouted through the line.

“Major, I’ve got trouble here.” Charles looked over at Captain Saunders. “I’m losing him, too much internal damage.”

Charles hung up the phone even as he distantly heard Blake shouting, “Winchester, now!”

He went to stand next to the young man. He was blonde, brown-eyed, and pale even before death drained him of life inch by inch. 

He swallowed, and his mouth opened and closed, before he breathed out, “Am I alright? I can’t feel anything in my legs.”

Charles gripped the edge of the table, the image of Maxwell laying on a similar table in the 4077th flashing before his eyes, “Try to hold on. We’ll get you to a MASH unit and they’ll patch you up just fine.”

The boy swallowed. “I don’t know whether I can, Doc. I feel real weird.”

Charles leaned over, “Just stay with it.”

Silence, then a whisper. “Doc? You still there?” The boy sounded so scared. Was this what Maxwell had felt? This terror?

Charles gripped the young man’s hand, tightly clenching his own fingers around the boy’s limp fingers, “Sure, I am.”

Tears rolled down the boy’s cheek, “I can’t see you, hold my hand.” He whimpered, terror gripping his chest.

“I am holding it.” Charles sobbed, his chest aching as tears brimmed in his own eyes.

“I can’t feel it.” The boy’s chest heaved as he realized quietly what was going to happen. “Oh God, I’m gonna die.”

Charles leaned closer, staring at the boy. “Can you hear me?”

A pause, then a quiet, “Yes.”

Charles’ voice shook as he thought of Maxwell, laying unconscious in post-op back at the 4077th. “What is happening to you? Can you feel anything? Do you see anything?” Tears rolled down his face, landing on the boy’s cut and torn uniform. “Please, I have to know. What is happening to you?”

Silence. Charles wondered if he had already died. Then, “I smell bread.”

“I don’t understand.” Charles whispered, staring at the boy as his breath rattled and he went still.

The phone rang again, and Charles released the boy’s hand, tucking it against his chest, stepping away quietly.

“For you, Major.”

Charles held the reciever up to his ear. “Yes?” He asked, expecting Henry Blake’s voice.

“Charles,” Maxwell’s voice was weak, but it was _his_. “You need to come back. We need you.”

Charles let out a sob as Captain Saunders left him to his grief, his stress, his fear. 

“I know, Major, it’s okay.” Maxwell gently reassured him. “It’s okay, Major baby, it’s fine.” 

“Maxwell, I… I got you shot.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Maxwell whispered back. “It wasn’t. Just come back. Just come home.”

Charles nodded, then realized that Maxwell couldn’t see him. “I’ll come back.” He was silent for a moment before he whispered. “Maxwell?”

“I’m here.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Charles.”


	14. Deal Me Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles has never played poker before, but Maxwell seems capable of convincing him to do anything.

“I’ve never played poker, Maxwell, I feel that I might be poor competition for Major Freedman and Captain Pak.”

“Come on, Charles,” Maxwell was dressed in his knit hat, some rhinestone-decorated sunglasses, Charles nervously looked at him as he pulled on an orange cardigan over a white and blue floral patterned shirt, the colour of the cardigan matching the orange and brown plaid of his skirt. How he managed to be so mismatched, yet so complete and coordinated was a mystery to Charles, but one that delighted him.

What did not delight him was Maxwell’s cough, which he covered with a handkerchief that seemed to be permanently in his hand as of late. Ever since he had been shot he received frequent oxygen treatments, but his lungs seemed to be recovering more slowly than Charles had anticipated. He tried not to think about how he could treat Maxwell so much more easily at Boston General, those thoughts inevitably made him resent that Maxwell had been shot at all.

“If I go, it is merely to make sure you do not overexert yourself.”

“Playing poker, Major baby?” Maxwell had laughter in his eyes, even if it didn’t leak into his voice. 

“Yes.” Charles knew he was being somewhat ridiculous, but worry made him even more insistent to be as close to Maxwell as he could, to protect him from anything that might occur. 

“Alright, alright, if you insist.” Maxwell grabbed his purse, filled with his poker money, and slipped on his bright blue heels. “To the mess tent, then, to the Swamp.”

Charles followed Maxwell, much like a great lumbering Saint Bernard, protective and concerned as Maxwell chatted with the cook, collected a tray of sandwiches, which Charles had to resist taking from the other man’s hands. He had long since been cleared for duty, no need for assistance in anything, and only one oxygen treatment a day was required, and even that was in the first stages of being stopped.

“Sandwiches from the mess tent, and Major Winchester fresh from post-op duties.” Maxwell declared, and Charles gave a polite nod to the men that had set themselves up in the Swamp, already playing the first round of cards. “There’s ham, chicken, and something brown that just lays there.” Maxwell said as he placed the sandwiches aside.

“Hope everyone likes carrier pigeon,” Pierce murmured, eying the sandwiches warily.

“Certainly it is closer to squab than dog is to beef.” Charles said simply as he sat down beside Maxwell, watching the game curiously. He did not understand poker, and was not fond of the idea of the game. He was a fair hand at cribbage, gin, and hearts, but poker seemed to be too needlessly complicated, with the different hands and combinations.

“Everybody know Klinger?” Colonel Blake gestured to the table as he took a puff from his cigar, sent from Iowa by his wife no doubt. “This is Captain Pak, Major Freedman. Captain, Major, Corporal Klinger and Major Winchester, they’re something of a package deal.”

“Major Freedman!” Klinger grinned, producing his own cigar, another one of the cheap monstrosities from New Jersey that he refused to stop smoking until they were all gone. “The psychiatrist.”

Major Freedman was a small, thin man, but he still managed to set Charles’ teeth on edge just by virtue of his occupation. Deep scars had not had enough time to heal, especially not in the Army. “Still trying to get out wearing dresses, Klinger?” Major Freedman asked with a good-natured smirk, holding his cards close. 

Captain Pak was staring at them with a disbelieving look, and Charles felt his chest seize at the thought of what the man must think of them. “Earrings with a sweater?” He asked Maxwell, raising a brow. 

Charles couldn’t help a brief laugh at that, causing Maxwell to smack his shoulder. “Shut up, you, you know I’m tasteful.”

“In your taste in clothing you are impeccable,” Charles reassured, a smug smile curling the edges of his lips. Maxwell preened, like a cat that got the cream, and when it came time for the next round of cards (Pierce won this first round, it seemed) he captured them under his perfectly manicured nails as McIntyre tossed the cards across the table at the various players.

“Klinger, be creative,” Major Freedman said with that wry, knowing smile. “I remember a guy who insisted he was a cockroach. He’d only crawl along the woodwork.”

“Private Kafka?” Charles asked, and the other Major rolled his eyes.

“Then I had a young main who claimed to be reincarnated. Said he was with Washington at Valley Forge, and therefore had already done his military service.” 

“Alright, alright, Major Freedman, I see your point,” Maxwell said simply. “But who knows, maybe I got fond of dressing like this? I might keep it up back home.”

“For that, I might actually sign that section 8,” Colonel Blake said with a raised brow, but didn’t say anymore as Maxwell looked at his hand and grinned around his cigar. 

“Corporal, I believe that there is something called a poker face that you are obligated to maintain when you _play_ poker.”

“Shut up, Major baby,” Maxwell shouldered Charles as the man peered over his shoulder at his hand.

“Is that a good one?”

“Now who has the shoddy poker face?” Maxwell scooted aside, opening up space at the table between Captain Pak and himself.

“Why don’t you play, Major Moneybags?” Pierce asked with a smirk. “Or you just here to play Doctor with Klinger?”

“I do not know how to play this game.” Charles said simply as he looked at it. “And all of you seem to delight in making up needless rules.”

“That’s the fun of it,” McIntyre grinned. “Come on, Chuckles, play a few rounds.”

Charles looked at Maxwell, who was smiling at him encouragingly. “Fine, fine, what is the, ah, buy in?”

“Fifty bucks.” Charles opened his wallet, and placed the money down. Colonel Blake opened up a box and produced a variety of chips in exchange for the money. “Blues are five, reds are a dollar, whites are fifty cents.” He explained, letting Charles collect his stack of filthy lucre and sit down beside Maxwell.

The cards were shoved towards Captain Pak, who gathered them up and began to shuffle and deal. “What do you wanna play next, Sam?”

“Five card stud. High-lo. You can buy one at the end, and low hole card wild.”

Charles stared at the man and blinked before he said simply, “And you want to give _Corporal Klinger_ a section eight?”

* * *

It was a couple of hours before Charles seemed to get the hang of what beat what, and with Maxwell’s help he had managed to convince the others to ease up on their more wild alterations to the game.

“It’s no fun fleecing the Major when he doesn’t even understand the rules.” Maxwell’s hand beneath the table slid over Charles’ thigh gently, everyone too absorbed with their own hands and distractions to care. Pierce and McIntyre had left, to perform a surgery that Frank had refused to do, and Colonel Blake was dealing with an incident with O'Reilly by that point, something involving a jeep.

That left Charles and Maxwell alone with Major Freedman and Captain Pak, Maxwell easily trading barbs and Charles slowly relaxing as he pulled out a bottle of cognac and four glasses, pouring out drinks for the table. He could feel Maxwell’s foot, sans a delicately heeled shoe, rubbing over the front of his leg, tracing his ankle, nudging at his own booted foot beneath the table.

“Okay, there’s a possible straight, pair of Queens, I dunno, and garbage for the dealer. Possible straight bets, Sam.” Sidney said as he placed the dealer’s deck aside, looking at the other man.

“Wait a moment, what is a straight higher than?”

“Lower than a flush, but higher than a pair.” Maxwell supplied, sipping at the cognac, his painted nails tapping at the glass lightly in thought. “Would you like to make a bet before the war goes into overtime, Captain?”

“I bet five.” Captain Pak looked at the table, taking in Maxwell’s crossed legs beneath the table, his foot rubbing lightly against Charles’ shin. Charles tried to ignore the raised eyebrow and inscrutable look he received. 

“Fine, I will see you five,” Charles said as he placed his bet, looking at his cards as Maxwell’s stockinged toes rubbed circles over his ankle, driving him to distraction.

“Over and out.” Major Freedman folded and Maxwell raised a brow at that before smirking at Charles and Sam. “Sam, did you get the straight?”

Captain Pak looked at him, “Did I get the straight?” He started to throw out his cards. “Two, three, four, five, nine.”

Maxwell laughed brightly, slapping his hand down. “My queens held up, thank you, Captain.” He was grinning like a loon and Charles couldn’t help but slide his own palm over the back of his thigh down to the back of his knee in the brief moment that Maxwell was standing, raking in the chips. “At this rate I can afford that black silk I wanted.”

They all drank for a moment, and Charles even produced some crackers, sardines, and liverwurst, the group taking a moment to eat, all of them eying the sandwiches a bit warily. “So, Major Freedman,” Charles began, attempting to be cordial. “What is the psychiatric basis for gambling?”

“Sex.” Major Freedman shrugged as he looked at Charles.

Charles nearly choked on his cognac, but managed to refrain from such disaster, “Why?” He asked, slightly weak.

“I dunno, they tell me to say it.” Major Freedman spread more liverwurst on a cracker. “Sex is why we gamble. Sex is why we drink. Sex is why we give birth.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Charles said, amused as he raised his glass to the man.

Major Freedman smiled back, just as wry, reaching over to swipe a blue chip from Charles’ neat stack, “I’m taking a five dollar chip, that was a house call.”

“And we’re back!” Pierce barged into the Swamp, McIntyre and Blake in tow, the group of them sitting down. Maxwell shuffled closer to Charles, their hips almost touching as he bumped his knee against Charles’ beneath the table.

“Just in time to deal, Captain.” Maxwell passed the deck to McIntyre. 

“Swell,” McIntyre grumbled, shuffling and cutting the deck before he started to deal, only for the door to swing open again, nearly smacking Pierce who had leaned back in his own chair.

“Here they are!” Burns shouted, a stranger in tow. The man was lean, but short, his eyes caught in a perpetual squint as he stared at the group of doctors and the one non-com in the tent.

“Pierce, McIntyre.” The man sauntered over, staring down at Pierce. “You two are under arrest.”

“Whoa, hold the phone.” Blake held up his hand, flashing his cards to the table. It was not a good hand, in Charles’ inexpert opinion. “I’m Colonel Blake here, nobody arrests them without telling me the whys and wherefores or the reason thereofs.”

“They operated on a C.I.D. man without another C.I.D. man standing by.” Burns said, stomping his foot. “Captain Halloran had been sent to ensure that the other man didn’t talk, but they just wouldn’t wait.”

Blake raised a brow at that, looking at Halloran’s credentials before he looked from Pierce to McIntyre, “Okay. Did you guys really do that?” 

“Henry, the guy could have died.” McIntyre said, dealing out another round of cards to the table.

Pierce looked at Halloran with the beginnings of an exhausted scowl, then at Blake, “He was bleeding, Henry, and Frank here who studied medicine under General Rommel was too chicken to operate. He was afraid that under anesthesia the lieutenant might give away Harry Truman’s hat size.”

“Were you present when lieutenant Rogers was given anesthesia?” Halloran asked, squinting down at Pierce.

“Of course, where else would I be?” Pierce lifted his martini to his lips.

Halloran leaned over to Blake, a stage whispered, “Colonel, can these men be trusted?”

“Certainly.” Blake said, equally confused by this stranger’s behaviour.

Halloran looked at the table again, his eyes fixing on Maxwell and narrowing even more, “What about her?”

There was silence as Maxwell looked at the man in obvious doe-eyed confusion, Charles paused for a moment before he said, wryly, “She happens to be my wife.” 

Major Freedman gave Charles a raised brow, “That’s a very interesting joke, Winchester.”

Charles tossed a five dollar chip at the psychiatrist, scowling at the man.

Pierce sighed, “Look, Captain, the lieutenant went under like a doll. The only thing he said under anesthesia was “Honey, you’re the greatest.”.”

McIntyre shrugged, finally looking up from his own hand, “It was a textbook operation. No complications. He’ll be up and snooping in a week.”

“Is that the full poop?” Halloran asked, clearly suspicious even with the doctors having no obvious reasons to lie to him.

“And nothing but the poop.” Pierce said, exhausted.

“And I split a gut getting down here.” Halloran scowled at Burns, who began to mumble and stutter at the prospect of a C.I.D. man being out to get him.

McIntyre shrugged, scooting aside to give Halloran room to sit down between him and Maxwell, “Look, if it’ll make you feel any better, the blues are five, the reds are a dollar, and the whites are 50 cents.”

The man paused before he sat down in the offered seat, “Deal me in.”

Burns gaped at the group, staring at them with wide eyes. “It’s amazing! Anyone who comes in here is instantly corrupted.” He turned, grabbing his bathrobe from behind Hawkeye’s chair and stormed out, stomping through the mud of the compound with all the impotent fury that he could manage.

Captain Halloran settled in his chair, turning to glance at Maxwell, before he froze, leaning back at the sight of him. “Hey, up close you’re a guy.”

Maxwell gave a wry smile, raising a brow at the Captain, “Far away too.”

* * *

It was several more rounds before they heard the gunshots. Charles immediately grabbed Maxwell, his broad arm snatched around the smaller man’s waist, causing him to shout as he was all but thrown to the ground, Charles kneeling down beside the table as well, keeping his head down as his heart pounded in his chest. 

“What’s going on?!” McIntyre shouted, poking his head up at the sound of rapid footsteps approaching. More shots went off, none of the men able to tell where they were coming from.

“Major Burns’ patient, Private Carter, he got ahold of a gun, he’s in the shower with Major Burns!” O’Reilly’s voice shouted, his voice cracking as he held up his clipboard as a shield. Pierce, McIntyre, Freedman, Blake, and Halloran all raced out to help, while Charles knelt up shakily, pulling Maxwell into a sitting position. His breaths were rattling and fear made him struggle to breathe. His eyes were more whites than dark irises, and Captain Pak was gently patting the young man’s back.

“Easy, kid, easy,” He said as Maxwell shook. “They’re gonna take care of it. You just breathe, just breathe, that’s right.”

Tears were running down Maxwell’s cheeks, and Charles could feel his own face drained of colour and tense with fear as his heart pounded away. His own hand gently gripped Maxwell’s shoulder, while the other cradled his opposite hand, gently running his thumb over dark, calloused knuckles. 

“Have a rough go of things here?” Captain Pak asked gently.

“Couple of months ago I was hit by a sniper,” Maxwell said gently. “It’s… Guns set me off now something fierce.”

“Looks like they have the same affect on the Major,” Those observant, dark eyes glanced up at Charles, who glanced away.

“He was the one that did the surgery,” Even without looking, Charles could hear the shaky smile in Maxwell’s voice. “I was in good hands the entire time.”

“It would hardly do to have a second gunman undo all of my hard work.” Charles said, masking his love for the other man with professionalism, glancing only briefly at Captain Pak as he tried to listen and assess what was happening at the showers.

“You should have a talk to Major Freedman.” The man suggested.

“Currently he has just said that Major Burns was a fine doctor and a terrific human being. “ Charles said wrly, looking at Captain Pak with a raised brow.

Maxwell managed a shaky, wheezing laugh, “Father Mulcahy should be called to give the truth the last rites.”

Another shot rang out and Burns let out a terrified scream, causing Charles to stand and crane his neck towards the showers. Major Freedman raced into the building, and a few moments later he walked out, holding tightly onto a shaky and pale looking young man. A few minutes later, a wet and dripping Major Burns walked out, being harassed by Pierce and McIntyre as they made their way back to the Swamp, Burns skittering off towards Houlihan’s tent.

It took only a small amount of time for the small incident to be brought to a conclusion, and soon the group was gathered around the table once more.

And if it bothered anyone that Maxwell was seated in Charles’ lap, the man’s arm protectively wrapped around Maxwell’s waist as he asked to not be dealt in, shoving his own generous pile of chips in front of Maxwell, then no one said anything.


	15. Operation Nose Lift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles calls in a favor with an old friend that he fell out of touch with. He is reminded of why they fell out of touch.

Charles disliked doing favors for people. Danny Baker, of all people, was not someone he felt that doing favors for would benefit him in any way. 

“You don’t have to live with the jokes!” Baker huffed, and Charles rolled his eyes.

“The words of small-minded people.”

“Uh huh, and how would you feel if someone said that they could use your nose as an umbrella? Or at the draft board if someone said you could get 4F if you told them you were an anteater?”

“Come on, Baker, if having a big schnoz was so horrible, I’d have cracked long before the army.” Maxwell said, wringing out a set of nylons in the basin he had set atop the Swamp’s stove. “Look at this thing,” He turned to show off his profile, and Charles couldn’t help but fondly smile at his corporal. “I came from a long line of very small nosed people.” He looked at Baker and waved a finger at him. “And then my grandfather’s camel spat in the eye of the village witch, and ever since then we’ve been growing them like this! I have eight uncles! Every single one of them has a nose like mine! Bigger even!”

“The daintiest man of the Klinger line, no doubt.” McIntyre said as he gestured to the man. “See, Baker, a nose is a nose is a nose. Doesn’t matter how big it is.”

“Not to mention,” Charles pointed out. “It is a specialized type of surgery.”

“Yeah, it’s not a tough operation, but none of us here are plastic surgeons.” Pierce shrugged his shoulders. “We don’t want to “denosify” you. We want it done right.” Pierce paused, his eyes narrowing as he turned to look at Charles. “Hey, Chuckles-”

“If you are going to ask me a favor the _least_ you could do is address me by my real name.”

“Fine, Winchester,” Pierce rolled his eyes. “Don’t you know anyone? You’re all high and mighty and that.”

Charles placed aside his medical journal and laced his fingers over his broad stomach. “I do happen to know a Major Stanley Robbins. he was a very dear friend back at residency at Boston General.” Charles raised a brow at the men. “You know him?” Charles could feel Maxwell’s curious gaze on him, the man wringing out some lace underthings, dark hands working more slowly as his curiosity piqued.

“Yeah, yeah, he does all those movie star jobs.” McIntyre grinned. “I hear he’s a bit of a Don Juan.”

“Yes, quite,” Charles hummed, looking at Baker for a long moment. “I suppose that with the right motivation he could be persuaded to come here.”

“Yeah, but what about Majors Burns and Houlihan?” Maxwell asked as he looked at the tent at large. “How do we keep them from finding out that you’re getting a Doctor to come over and do a surgery that is against regulation?”

The doctors and their patient quietly thought for a moment before Charles looked at Pierce and McIntyre. “I leave this task to you, it will be task enough to get Stanley out here.”

* * *

“Corporal, get me-”

“I got Stanley Robbins on the phone for you, Major Winchester.”

“… I swear I will never understand how you do what voodoo you do to figure out what I want.”

“It’s just a gift, sir.” 

“That’s thank you in Winchester-speak.” Maxwell said with a grin as he trailed after Charles and the gruesome twosome. 

“Sure you can get him up here?” McIntyre asked, looking at Charles curiously as the man sat in Colonel Blake’s chair as if he owned the place.

“Of course, I know how to play Stanley like a… What did that one Private call it? A Devil’s Golden Fiddle?” Charles lifted the receiver off the cradle and held it to his ear. “Stanley? Charles Winchester… Yes, the third, what other Charles Winchesters do you know?”

Maxwell perched on the edge of the desk, Charles’ lips curling as he listened on the phone. 

“Mhm. Well, forgive the call, did I catch you in the middle of a patient? Or anyone else?” Charles rested a hand on Maxwell’s knee very briefly, the gesture hidden from McIntyre and Pierce as he did so. “Good. Now, Stanley, you do know how I am with my favors… Mhm… Yes, yes, I’m an ungenerous bore that has been dead for three years, I’m sure I remember that from our residency days.” His hand slid off of Maxwell’s knee as he leaned back in the chair. “I have a young man here with a nose that would be perfect for your resume… No, he’s not a movie star. Oh, you’re not free?” Charles looked at McIntyre and Pierce, his lips curling into a sly, feline smirk. “Such a shame. The Barracuda will be heartbroken.”

A long pause. 

“Stanley, I have seen the dates you have had through the years. I just so happen to have someone here who’s beauty is only surpassed by their sweetness and, if rumor is to be believed, their prowess in more romantic matters…” Charles listened, rolling his eyes. “Of course _I_ haven’t been with them. But I mentioned that you were a friend of mine and they were very excited to meet you.” Charles let out a sigh and stood, making the chair creak audibly as he did so. “Well, I suppose if you cannot make it- Ah?” Charles grinned, broad and good natured. “I will see you in two hours.”

“So, uh, Chuckles?” Pierce’s lips were split into a devilish grin. “Which nurse is the barracuda?”

Charles quirked a brow at the man. “Who said that there was one?” He swept past them. “Maxwell, if you could assist me in getting the V.I.P. tent set up, McIntyre, Pierce, prep Baker for his operation, time is of the essence when it comes to Stanley.” He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “And make sure that Zale picks him up from the landing pad, at least Stanley won’t hound the poor man.”

Maxwell was quiet as he helped Charles prepare the V.I.P. tent. Clean sheets, and Charles prepared some of his own preciously guarded food and drink for the room. Maxwell had managed to dig up a decent set of pillows and blankets for the standard issue cot, and by the time they finished it was only an hour into their wait.

“Would you like to freshen up, darling?” Charles asked gently. “I can wash your hair for you.”

Lips that had been pursed tightly for what felt like the last hour curved into a smile and Maxwell looked at him for what felt like the first time since this whole debacle began. “I think I’d like that, Major.”

“We’re alone, Maxwell, you don’t have to call me that.”

Maxwell laughed weakly. “Major baby.” 

They made their way down the line of tents to Maxwell’s tent, and Charles couldn’t help but smile at the outfit that had been laid out for later in the evening. It was a charming herald back to old-world manners, changing clothes throughout the day. Certainly he could imagine Maxwell getting along quite grandly with Grandmother Winchester and Honoria and their love of fine dresses and jewelry. 

The record player was turned on, and Charles took a moment to select a record for them to listen to, having moved the player and collection away from his rambunctious roommates back at the Swamp.

Charles gathered the wash basin and filled it with water from the wash bucket that Maxwell kept beside the door. He gathered the bar of shampoo that had been sent to Maxwell, worked down to a thin sliver now from so many uses, and waited. Maxwell sat at his desk-turned-vanity, carefully removing his earrings and simple top he had worn. There was a slip beneath that he left on, the fine satin shimmering against his dark skin, but even at that state of near undress he didn’t move, instead choosing to stare at his reflection, turning his head this way and that. 

“Maxwell?”

“Do you think my nose is too big?” Maxwell’s voice abruptly cut through the music, a recording of Frankie Trumbauer and his Orchestra that Charles had asked Honoria to send several letters ago, and Charles stared at him, raising a slow brow at his love.

“What brought this on?”

“That was some quick action, getting Major Robbins down here,” Maxwell said with a shrug. 

“His own lasciviousness did that.” Charles chuckled, sitting down on the edge of Maxwell’s bed. “Come now, darling, if it will keep Baker from going A.W.O.L. then certainly it is a simple thing to get Major Robbins here.”

“But I… I have a big…”

“Oh, _darling_ ,” Charles felt his heart drop. “Oh, my love, I never meant to make you think… _No_ , of course I do not think that you should change one fiber of your being. Not your nose, not your face, not your body, not even to dye your hair a shade lighter or darker.” Charles’ hands cupped Maxwell’s face, tilting his head to kiss the younger man, their noses bumping only for a moment, as they always did. “I love you as you are.” Charles whispered, stroking Maxwell’s jaw, into his hairline, showering kisses down the bridge of his nose. “Every inch.”

Maxwell flushed, but smiled, leaning in for another kiss, his fingers wrapping around Charles’ wrists to hold on, keeping the man close as his thumbs rubbed over the back of Charles’ hands. “Thank you, Major.” He murmured, flushing softly. “You’ll have to remind me of that every once in a while.”

“I shall endeavor to ensure that you never need reminding.”

* * *

“Major Robbins,” Charles said, his smug smile curling his lips as he shook his old residency friend’s hand. Robbins swaggered out of his jeep, wearing his coat like an opera cape over his shoulders.

He grinned, shaking Charles’ hand only long enough to be polite, “Winchester, how are you?” His eyes scanned the compound, fleetingly glancing at Pierce and McIntyre.

“As well as to be expected here.” Charles rested a restraining hand on Robbins’ shoulder as the man caught sight of the nurses that Charles could hear exiting their meeting with Major Houlihan. “This is Trapper John McIntyre, and Hawkeye Pierce, surgeons in this outfit.”

McIntyre smiled, holding out his own hand for a shake, “Heard a lot about you, Dr. Robbins.”

“Maybe we can be friends anyway.” Robbins didn’t shake the other man’s hand, instead looking at Charles. “Well. I’ve seen the garbage dump, where’s the camp?”

Charles’ smile turned wry, “Unfortunately this is it, the full 4077.”

Robbins gaped at him for a moment, looking around again, “You’re kidding me.”

“Have you ever known me to kid?” Charles replied, beginning to steer Robbins towards the V.I.P. tent as Maxwell climbed onto the fender of the jeep, grabbing Robbins’ suitcase and heading back towards the V.I.P. tent.

“If I were you I’d call in an air strike, start all over again.” Robbins said, craning his neck to follow the sight of the nurses. “Is that her, the barra-?”

“No, it isn’t.” Charles didn’t need to look to shoot down the idea. He merely needed to keep Robbins focused on his task.

“Well, to you she isn’t, but what’s wrong with a little appetizer?” Robbins let out a growling noise and Charles tightened his grip on the man’s shoulder.

Pierce interjected with a sly grin, “Why don’t we get that nose job sorted before you start pawing at nurses, Dr. Robbins. I happen to be a personal friend of the barracuda’s and I promise you she’s a very patient woman.”

Maxwell was putting the suitcase down for Robbins, dressed in his white nurse’s uniform, his stockings thick white silk to keep his long legs warm. Charles knew the effect it would have on Robbins, but hoped that the man could restrain himself at least for a short amount of time.

“Well well well, and who is this?” Obviously Charles had put too much faith in the man’s self control.

“Corporal Klinger, if you need anything he’s your man, and sometimes your woman.” Pierce said with that same friendly grin plastered on his face.

“I’ll go round up Baker,” McIntyre said, leaving the room with a roll of his eyes.

Robbins stared at Maxwell, who gave a nervous smile to the new Doctor. Robbins watched him fuss over the bedding and a coffee kettle full of flowers before he moved to leave, trying to scoot around Robbins as the short doctor blocked the doorway. Charles narrowed his eyes as Robbins leaned over to whisper to Pierce, “See that face? It can be saved.”

Charles scowled at his friend. “Steady, Dr. Robbins.”

Robbins leaned in, wrapping one arm around Maxwell’s waist, drawing him close and grinning down at him as he traced Maxwell’s jaw, his lips, his nose. “Beautiful bone structure, very lean, well toned muscles all over. That nose needs some work, but who’s doesn’t?” The man grinned, Maxwell squirming in his grip, attempting to escape.

Maxwell spoke up, his voice rougher than usual, clearly an attempt to sound gruff and stern. “You need to work on your flattery, Major Robbins.”

Pierce gently pulled Maxwell out of the other doctor’s grip, most likely knowing that Charles would likely break Robbins’ hand for the liberties he was taking with Maxwell. “Robbins, remember what you’re here for.”

“Well? Where are they?” Robbins asked with a gesture towards the now empty V.I.P. tent.

“The nose first.”

“Anything the barracuda wants.” Charles tried not to be nervous about the way Robbins’ eyes followed Maxwell’s hasty retreat down to his own quarters not two tents down.

* * *

“Let me go!” Charles froze in his search for Stanley Robbins when he heard Maxwell’s voice. “You’re an animal!”

The frantic voice of the man he was searching for spoke up, “Let me prove it to you.”

“Let me go, let me go, stop, or I’ll scream!” Maxwell’s heels clattered to the floor and Charles raced down the small alley between post-op and the supply tent, grabbing at the door, only to realize it was locked.

“You’ll scream, you’ll holler, you’ll sing, you’ll become a symphony.” Robbins sounded nearly drugged with desire and Charles knew, from years of watching the other man seduce men and women alike into his bed, that that did not bode well for Maxwell.

“Major!” Maxwell’s voice calls out for _his_ Major, but from the sound of tearing cloth, Robbins took it as encouragement.

“Major Houlihan!” Charles raced out of the alley, looking around, he grabbed a nurse walking by, his grip on her arm bruising, “Where is Major Houlihan?” 

“I don’t know, in the showers, maybe?” The nurse spoke quickly, clearly frightened of the hand wrapped around her bicep.

Charles raced to the showers, throwing the door open and startling Major Houlihan, making her scream. “Lecher, pervert! What are you doing in here?!” She shrieked, and Charles looked towards her pile of discarded clothes, ignoring her as he tossed through them and found the keys to the supply tent, the nurse’s quarters, and a few other locked doors in the compound. He raced back out of the showers, Houlihan still throwing volleys of accusations at him.

As he approached the tent he heard more struggling, and Robbins’ voice asking, “Tell me the truth, Charles isn’t here, tell me your nickname!”

“What?!” Maxwell’s voice was frantic as he tried to land a punch, grunting and kicking.

“You’re the Barracuda, right?” A wrong key and Charles quietly cursed himself for even asking for Robbins to come to the 4077th.

“The _what_?” Another wrong key but there were other footsteps approaching the tent.

“Chuckles, where’s your pal, we got Baker ready to go on the table!” Pierce’s voice cut through the air and Charles growled and cursed as he fumbled the next key.

Robbins’ voice was frantic on the other side, desperate, “I’ve known hundreds of beautiful people, Corporal, please be one of them.”

“Get off me, or I’ll crack you across the face with this, I don’t care that you’re the Major’s friend!” Another wrong key and Charles’ patience was at an end.

He pulled back, shoving Pierce out of the way, and then charged the door, feeling the lock give slightly, but not enough. He pulled back again, his entire weight slamming into the door, shoulder first. The third blow made the door break down, Major Houlihan shouting in rage at the sight of such wanton destruction of military property.

“Charles!” Maxwell’s voice cracked with relief as he raced over, holding a wrench in his hand as he clung to Charles tightly. His breaths were shaky, and he was clearly struggling with his lungs from the absolute panic, but Charles refused to let him go, even as Pierce gave Robbins a measured look. 

Charles glared at Robbins and clutched Maxwell closer to his chest, feeling the smaller man shake and attempt to steady his breathing, “If I chopped you in half then we’d no doubt find Corporal Klinger’s grandmother inside.”

Pierce gripped Robbins’ arm tightly, dragging him slowly away from the scene of what was most certainly about to be a crime. “Doctor, please, let’s remember who we are and what we’re here for.”

Maxwell slumped into Charles’ arms, relief pouring through his veins as Charles rubbed his back, letting Maxwell put the majority of his weight on Charles’ own body.

“What the Hell, Major?” Maxwell finally breathed. “That guy was your friend?”

“I never said he was a good one. The reason we no longer keep in touch had eluded me, until now.”

“Yeah, do me a favor, Major baby.”

“Yes, Corporal darling?”

“Fall out of touch with him again.”


	16. As You Were

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a lull in the action, Charles and Maxwell quietly learns new things about Maxwell, and teaches him some new things as well.

Colonel Blake was giving the monthly lecture. Or, attempting to do so. Charles sat beside Maxwell in the mess tent where Blake stood, trying to get everyone’s attention. It had been two weeks since they had last had any casualties. The first few days of silence was a relief. By the tenth day, with every inch of the camp cleaned within an inch of it’s life, no new orders from on high, and no news of any casualties expected, the entire camp had fallen into the clutches of sheer, unadulterated boredom. Burns had resorted to arranging condiments by height and popularity on every single table in a single, even line. Pierce and McIntyre had since increased their pranks on the man. Maxwell had been sewing dresses non-stop. His latest creation was the gown that Rita Hayworth had worn in Gilda, and he had asked Charles to play impromptu photographer and take a few pictures of him in the black silk to send to General Mitchell (along with a threat to tell the man’s wife that he had been having an affair with Maxwell). 

It was now the thirteenth day and Colonel Blake had decided to finally do what he was supposed to do every month and give the monthly lecture on VD. Voices stopped talking and everyone sat, Maxwell staring up at the front from where he and Charles were sitting in the far back, Maxwell wearing a bright red dress and a matching silk pashmina tied over his head. He watched the entire thing with the resigned frustration of someone who had questions that were never answered by Henry Blake’s clumsy explanations.

“Figure A and Figure B. Man, woman. Dad, mom . Boy, girl.” Blake wrung his pointing stick in his hands.

“Maggie and Jiggs.” Pierce heckled from his front row seat.

“Now, uh, whether a person be an “A” or a “B”, he or she is blessed with a… I mean… Okay, after all, I, uh, I guess I don’t have to… I guess I don’t have to tell you Figure A’s what you’re blessed with.” He cleared his throat and looked out at the laughing crowd. “The uh, human body, you know, can uh whether he be A or she be B, can find itself with a certain kind of um medical trouble.”

“What kind of trouble is that, Henry?” McIntyre asked, giggling around the words.

Blake rolled his eyes at the doctor and then cleared his throat. “Now guys, uh, some of you are going back to your wives. Some of you are going back to your sweethearts. And some of you, for all I know, are going back to both.” He waved his stick at the crowd at large. “Irregardless of what you’ve got waiting, I mean, uh, you owe it to that waitee to return home with a clean mind and clean body.” Blake stuttered and then reached into his pocket, yanking out his notecards. “Difficult, you ask?” He read from the card, causing another gale of laughter from the crowd. “Uh, well, it is difficult, men, I mean really you’re uh… It’s Saturday night. You got a 24-hour pass, you’re 20,000 miles away from home.”

“You can’t make it, I tried.” Pierce shouted with his own giggles colouring his voice.

Blake ignored Pierce, continuing as if the man hadn’t spoken. “You walk into a bar and it’s full of B girls. Now, you guys know what I’m talking about, men. Resist. You know what I mean? Use your heads. Use your common sense, come on now.”

Corporal O’Reilly lifted his hand, and Blake pointed at him. “Yes, Radar?”

“Uh, sir,” O’Reilly stood, wringing his army issue cap in his hands. “Do you suppose one day you could give us a talk on VD?”

* * *

Mail call arrived and Charles grinned in delight, immediately going to Maxwell’s tent. 

“Major, can you pass me that pincushion?” Maxwell asked as the door opened. 

“How did you know it was me?” He obeyed anyway, passing the small converted mason jar to Maxwell. The pins inside rattled, and the converted lid was already pricked through with multiple pins in Maxwell’s colour coded system. White pins for fine stitching, yellow pins for double stitching, green for darts, and red for hems. 

“Because no one else comes into my tent for any reason, they just knock and shout through the door for whatever they want.” Maxwell looked up and raised a brow at the flat package in Charles’ hands. “What did you get?”

“Something I think you might find quite enlightening.” Charles said as he pulled the record out, moving to the player and clicking the device on. He placed the record on and handed the sleeve to Maxwell.

He took the sleeve out of habit, glanced at the front, then flushed brightly, his dark complexion darkening even more. “ _Major_!”

“This is _Scheherazade_ , based off of the 1001 Arabian Nights.”

“I remember, my mother used to tell them to me.” Maxwell looked at the cover, at the drawing of the two lovers clinging to one another. 

“Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov was a genius of a composer, and the Ballet Russes employed him to write the music for _Scheherazade_.”

“As nice as this is, I don’t recall those stories being so…” Maxwell swallowed as he gently placed the sleeve aside, listening to the music. “Erotic.”

He listened anyway to the seductive violins of the music, his imagination clearly running wild as he worried his lip between his teeth. 

Charles drew the younger man up from where he knelt on the floor, working on the hem of his latest creation. Maxwell was dressed in what Charles could only describe as a swathe of rich green silk patterned with golden designs along the edge. The fabric wrapped around him in layers, draped over every inch of him in no discernible way. 

“What is this latest creation?”

“Just some extra silk laying around,” Maxwell said, his hand cradled in Charles as the man took a good long look at him, giving him a light twirl and catching sight of the delicate hoops and chains draped around Maxwell’s ankles. “I like the way it feels, and it’s not too hot.”

“It looks lovely on you.” Charles said, smiling as he pulled Maxwell close, the two of them sitting on the edge of the Corporal’s bed. “Maxwell, my pet,” Charles purred, taking the younger man’s hand into his own, drawing him closer. “You are my lovely little pet.” He whispered to Maxwell, making him shiver and press close, tilting his head to catch Charles’ eyes for reassurance. “My darling Scheherazade.”

“She was a woman.” Maxwell shivered, tilting his head and letting Charles nose at the hoop earrings he wore, the man’s lips sliding over his lobes, then down to his neck gently. “I’m not… Not really a man either. Not a figure A or figure B… Some… I don’t know. Sounds silly to say that I’m a figure C.”

Charles drew Maxwell close, smiling at him gently. “Do you know why I ordered _Scheherazade_?”

“Because of Arabian nights?” Maxwell hazarded shyly.

“ _Swan Lake_ and _Sleeping Beauty_ were praised for their technique, their perfect execution of the art.” Charles’ hand slid over Maxwell’s stomach, up his chest, making the young man’s breath catch. “But Scheherazade was more visceral. It was a ballet made to focus on the authenticity of the actors. An imperfect perfection of movement.” His teeth caught at Maxwell’s neck, the tender flesh just beneath his jaw, and Charles felt Maxwell tremble, his pulse increasing beneath his lips. “Nijinsky played a role in the ballet as “the golden slave”, he was dressed not to be powerful and masculine, but sensual and feminine, glittering on the stage.” Charles stroked his palm over Maxwell’s waist, down, to his thighs, rubbing at the outside of Maxwell’s leg, slowly inching his fingers inwards. 

“But-” Maxwell gasped and shivered. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Different cultures have different words for it.” Charles murmured. “I wrote an old friend, he worked in the research department at Harvard.” Maxwell’s body relaxed into Charles’ hands, entirely trusting as he was laid back on the bed, Charles looming over him. “So many cultures outside of America and European ones have a third gender. In Arabic the word is apparently _Xanith_. A derogatory term. The South Asian Indians have the word _Hijra_. Even Native Americans have the term two-spirits.” Charles smiled at Maxwell gently, stroking his fingers over the Corporal’s cheek. “So you see? You can be a figure C. If that is what you wish.”

Maxwell stared at him, then sniffled, and soon enough tears were rolling down his face as he clung to Charles, sobbing softly. “No one… No one ever tried to… To…” He pressed his face to Charles’ shoulder. “To make me feel like a real person. Like… Like I wasn’t a freak.” He smiled, wiping at the tears, trying to rid himself of the smears of mascara running down his face. “Now look at me, you made me ruin my makeup!”

Charles smiled, pulling his handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe gently at Maxwell’s cheeks and eyes, putting him somewhat to rights. “You are lovely. Always.”

“Thank you, Charles.” Maxwell smiled, looking up at him with an adoring gaze that Charles was not sure he could ever even begin to deserve.

* * *

“Winchester? Are you… Are you in there?”

“Yes, and I am decent as well.” Charles called through the door and Majors Burns and Houlihan peered in, as if ready to walk into some obscenely decadent den of vice. Insteady they walked in on Charles standing, with Maxwell pinning the seams of a smoking jacket pattern that he had begun to make for the man. There were swathes of brocades and velvet, sent all the way from Boston by Charles’ over-eager sister, draped over Charles’ free arm as Maxwell adjusted the shoulder seam of the opposite arm. 

“Don’t tell me you’re using him as some _servant_!”

“Certainly not,” Charles said simply. “Corporal Klinger does these things to stave off boredom and because he likes me, is that not right?”

“Yes, Major baby.” 

“That is obscene and entirely inappropriate!” Houlihan shouted, stamping her foot before he remembered where they were and why they were there. “Major Winchester, Frank would like to talk to you as a doctor.”

“I promise nothing but the utmost professionalism,” Charles said simply, looking at Burns even as Maxwell paused in his work, peering around Charles’ side to stare at the other two Majors. Charles could _feel_ the gypsy grin slowly spreading over Maxwell’s face.

“Well… I… I’ve had this condition that’s needed attention for over ten years.”

“And why have you not sought treatment before?” Charles asked, as promised maintaining only the utmost professionalism. 

“He planned to lay on the table with a scalpel in one hand and a mirror in the other?” Maxwell suggested with a snicker, no doubt delighting in having Major Burns in his tent, vulnerable.

“Will you be _serious_!” Houlihan shouted, glaring at Maxwell. “This man has a hernia.”

It looked like it took every ounce of his being to force out the words, but Burns managed, not making eye contact as he looked down at his own boots. “Um, I… would like to… ask you if you’d, uh, consider operating on me.”

Charles narrowed his eyes before he smirked, his lips curling delightedly. “Of course. But on two conditions.”

“Name it, anything,” Burns said, desperate as his eyes shot up.

“I am attempting to get Maxwell certified as a nurse,” Charles looked at the two. “He requires two doctor’s signatures for approval for training, as well as approval and supervision from the head nurse.” 

“Of course.” Houlihan seemed to speak for both of them, even as Burns’ lips pursed and thinned even more at the thought of Maxwell as a trained nurse.

“And I would like for him to assist Margaret on this operation. It will be a good experience for him.”

“ _What_?” Burns shouted, looking at Maxwell as the young man cackled in glee. 

“Of course, if you protest to my conditions, then you can certainly ask Pierce and McIntyre.” Charles said, turning to look at the cuffs of his patterned smoking jacket, noting that they were the perfect length for his arms. 

Maxwell snickered, “Yeah, I delivered a package from the Peerless Costume Company. They got brand new gorilla costumes.”

Burns sighed and whimpered and whined for a moment before he said, “Okay, okay, as long as Major Houlihan is there too!”

“Of course, you have your nurse, I have mine, and at dawn we shall duel with scalpels at thirty paces.” Charles said simply before waving them off. “Go prep, I’ll be there momentarily.”

“Now?” Burns asked, his voice a mere squeak. 

“No time like the present.”

The two Majors left the tent, Burns whining to Houlihan about something or other, no doubt some insult to Charles’ masculinity or a disparaging comment about Maxwell as a whole, but Charles ignored it, instead smiling as Max giggled with glee, removing the jacket pattern from Charles’ body before he pulled out his white nurse’s uniform. He pulled on some white stockings, his smart black shoes with the low heels, and his white starch hat.

“I refuse to wear a uniform, but this should at least put Major Burns at ease.” Maxwell said with a smile, taking a moment to slash on his usual cat’s eye makeup. Less than professional, but Charles couldn’t help but delight in it regardless. It was, after all, a uniform.

They went to the scrub room and Charles changed into his white scrubs, watching as the corporal scrubbed at his own hands just as much as Charles did. Maxwell had taken to shaving the hair off of his knuckles and forearms in an attempt to make this particular process easier, and while it was still a long process, Charles couldn’t help but stare at how long and calloused the younger man’s fingers were, and how they worked soap and water into his skin. He was still faster than Charles’ brutal cleaning process, getting his own gloves, gown, cap, and mask on before Charles. 

Charles realized why when Maxwell giggled and stepped into surgery to declare, “Let’s hear it now for that great star of stage, screen, and surgery! Dr. Charles Emerson Winchester III, his dirty fingernails, and his orchestra!”

“ _Maxwell_ ,” Charles called with an exasperated sigh while Burns began to sob on the operating table.

“Oh _really_ , Klinger, be professional!” Houlihan shouted as Charles came out of the scrub room.

“Yes, Corporal, please,” Charles moved to loom over Burns, looking down at him. “Forget all of the horrible, hateful things Major Burns has said. Or the dress that he ruined last week in a fit of pique. Or the fact that he burned dozens of books in camp that he dubbed obscene.” Burns’ eyes were the size of dinner plates as Charles leaned back and held out his hand to Houlihan. “Major Houlihan, a local if you please.”

Burns was saved only by the sound of O’Reilly’s voice over the P.A., “Attention, incoming casualties!”


	17. Crisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 4077th is in the middle of a crisis. Charles tries to bring civilization to the horror of it all.

Colonel Blake looked worried, but you wouldn’t know that it was serious from the way his officers came into his office, only Father Mulcahy refraining from sniping and jabbing about being summoned. Charles himself disliked being called to the office, like a schoolboy being sent to the principal’s office for some minor misdemeanor, but one look at the man’s expression made Charles feel the weight of worry in his chest. “Alright, people. I’m gonna give it to you straight.” Blake placed his hands on his hips, pacing behind his desk. “Starting right here and now, we’re all going to have to put our shoulders to the wheel. Our noses to the grindstone. We’ve got to hunker down and pull together, all for one and one for all.”

McIntyre snorted, chewing bubblegum as he looked straight at the wall with sheer boredom. “Welcome to the Henry Blake Cliche Festival.”

“I happen to be serious, McIntyre.” Blake glared at the surgeon, his jaw tensing.

“Then stop talking in samplers,” Pierce said with a curious look, clearly catching on that this was no joke.

Blake leaned over his desk, drumming his fingers before he spat out, “Our supply line’s been cut.”

“Who did that?” Burns asked, sounding genuinely surprised that such a thing was possible. 

Charles scoffed, glaring at his fellow doctor. “Oh really, Major Burns, the _other side_ did that. We can’t do everything ourselves.”

As if sensing the all out war that was about to erupt in his office, Blake held up a hand and gestured to O’Reilly, “Radar, read a partial list of a few of the things we won’t be getting for a while.”

“Fruit, vegetables, assorted food, fuel oil, blankets and bandages, linen replacements, toilet paper.” There was a collective groan from the gathered officers, everyone already feeling how no toilet paper would effect the morale of the entire 4077th. “No mail call, no electrical parts, no flares, no winter clothing.” O’Reilly looked up at the Colonel, who sighed, but nodded his approval of the Corporal’s recitation nonetheless.

Burns was quick to speak, sneering as he stood, to either make himself seem more military-like or more authoritative, Charles would never know. “Well, we’ve all had it too good for too long! What would have happened in 1776 if the Minutemen on their way to Concord had stopped to worry about toilet paper?”

Pierce shrugged, looking at Burns, “Then we would have had independence ten minutes later.”

“Alright people, let’s put the lid on the bickering, we’re all in this together.” Colonel Blake sat at his own chair, rubbing at his eyes.

Houlihan didn’t stand, but she did speak up. “I think this entire unit should go on immediate red alert.”

“That makes good sense. I would make it conditional, however.” Blake nodded, leaning back in his chair.

Houlihan looked at him, confused as to what he could be confused about what red alert meant, no doubt. “On what?”

“On what does red alert mean?” Charles sighed and offered a silent prayer to the universe at large for patience. Doubtless if he asked for strength he might start smacking Colonel Blake, Burns, or Houlihan. 

“Emergency situation, drastic measures, distribution of power.” Houlihan said, her fingers clenching the edge of her scarf for a moment.

Charles hummed, leaning back in his own chair, giving Houlihan and Burns a sideways look, “Best be wary, Colonel Blake, this is how they got the Czar.”

Blake held up a warning finger to Charles, but ignored his comment, “Okay, during this situation of Red Alert. The following people will be in charge of these things they’ll be in charge of. Major Frank Burns, you’ll be in charge of conservation, distribution, and possible rationing of food. Captain McIntyre, heat and electrical power. Captain Pierce, maintenance and general service and supplies. Major Houlihan, you’ll look after the nurses. And Winchester will be housing officer. Now, before all this is over we might need to start doubling up or tripling up to save heat. Winchester will decide who sleeps with who.”

“Hey, Charles,” McIntyre stared at the other man, Charles leaning forward in his seat in order to look across the room at McIntyre. “I’d like to see you right after the meeting.”

“What about me, Skipper?” Father Mulcahy asked, eager, as always, to be of help, eyes bright and smile beguilingly sweet.

Blake seemed to forget that he had not yet assigned the good Padre a job, and quickly recovered, “Oh! You’ll be in charge of morale!”

* * *

“Corporal?”

“I’m in, Major.” Maxwell’s voice called, and Charles opened the door, looking at the room that was bereft of electric light and freezing cold from the lack of a heater. Maxwell was putting on his Creme de Menthe , rubbing it into the circles beneath his eyes, his curlers set aside along with his hairnet, ready to be put in for the night.

“Ah, yes, the light was not on.” The room was lit by candlelight, a single thick pillar candle that Charles was sure Maxwell paid dearly for, if the scent of roses was any indication.

“Yeah, Captain McIntyre and I went around camp stealing light bulbs out of people’s tents. Then he came back here and took mine.” Maxwell gestured to the candle. “I had to beg him not to take that candle, I paid three weeks of wages to get it shipped here.”

“Has the man no decency?” Charles asked as he sat in the chair beside Maxwell’s desk, rubbing his hands together. “I’ve come to collect you for tonight, you’ll be bunking with my tentmates, the Colonel, The Father, and O’Reilly in the Swamp tonight. But first,” Maxwell turned to see Charles holding up a worn book, with tattered edges of the cover and some of the pages curling and wrinkling from abuse. 

“Is that…?”

“A real book,” Charles’ lips curled in that soft, smug smile that never failed to make Maxwell’s heart beat faster. “Honoria sent it to me months ago, but I have been saving it for dire situations. And currently with every scrap of paper in this camp up for grabs, I thought it wise to keep it close to my heart.”

Maxwell smiled broadly at the man, putting his sewing aside and leaning closer. “What is it?” It certainly looked fancy, the cover was plum velvet, and the edges of the pages were gold leaf, even if age had not treated it kindly. It was a small book, dwarfed in Charles’ broad palms, but that didn’t matter, if Charles wanted to share it with him, he was certain that it would be worthwhile.

“I’m… Not sure. I haven’t opened it yet, I felt it would be best to share the experience with you.” Charles smiled at the younger man, stroking his fingers over Maxwell’s fingers gently. “Perhaps we could read a small bit before we go to bed?”

Maxwell’s face flushed brightly as he stared up at the other man, scooting along the bed and gesturing for Charles to sit beside him. He was bundled up in layers, his wool housecoat, flannel night gown, thick silk stockings, knitted socks, and his fuzzy pink slippers, shivering as Charles sat beside him, the larger man wrapping an arm around Maxwell’s smaller shoulders to bring him closer. 

“ _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , by Oscar Wilde,” Charles nearly choked as he read the title before he cleared his throat and began. “The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn…”

Maxwell shivered as he listened to Charles’ voice. He didn’t quite follow all of the book, but it was so very romantic and beautiful to hear the man speak, read such lush and vivid prose. Charles even made attempts at doing the different tones and voices for the dialogue between characters. Maxwell liked when he spoke as Basil the most; there was a certain desperate wanting that tainted every word of the dialogue and Charles brought it out full force.

 _“…Tell me more about Dorian Gray. How often do you see him?”_ Charles spoke as Lord Henry, his voice rumbling low and inquisitive.

In a flash the tone changed to that of Basil, the man obsessed with another man. _“Every day. I couldn’t be happy if I didn’t see him every day. Of course sometimes it is only for a few minutes. But a few minutes with somebody one worships mean a great deal.”_

Maxwell couldn’t help but shiver, leaning closer to the Major and looking up at him with dark, adoring eyes, watching the way the candlelight flickered and caught the sharp line of the man’s nose, the softness of his eyes, his stern brow.

 _“But you don’t really worship him?”_ Charles spoke as Lord Henry again, and Maxwell leaned closer, pressing against the man’s side, his hand sliding over the Major’s stomach, drawing him closer.

 _“I do.”_ Charles answered his own question as Basil, and Maxwell shivered again, but this time not from the chill of his tent.

Charles felt that it was only by some grace of education that he managed to not lose his place. He noticed Maxwell’s delicate press, his delighted shiver, but chose not to say anything. Instead he let his hand slide down Maxwell’s housecoat, pressed to his thin hip through the thick fabric of the coat and nightgown beneath. _“How extraordinary! I thought you would never care for anything but your painting,—your art, I should say. Art sounds better, doesn’t it?”_

Maxwell looked up at Charles with dark eyes, and Charles could hardly ignore him any longer, turning his gaze to the younger man as he spoke the last line of the exchange. _“He is all my art to me now…“_

“Major?” Maxwell murmured, still pressed so desperately close, and Charles swooped down, capturing his lips in a deep kiss. 

Perhaps they could be a touch later to the Swamp, let the rest of the tent settle in before they went to the two cots that Charles had set up side by side for the two of them.

* * *

“You know, the others are going to figure out what you’re doing.”

“It is the third night of you spending the night in the Swamp, I highly doubt that if they have not caught on by now that they ever will. Besides, you and I are the earliest risers beside O’Reilly.”

Maxwell was putting his curlers in, smiling as he glanced in his mirror at Charles. “Read to me some more?”

“Of course.” Charles pulled out the even more battered copy of _The Picture of Dorian Gray_. “You know, during his trial, they used this book as evidence that Oscar Wilde was guilty of gross indecency.”

“What is that?” Maxwell asked, looking up from his work trying to get his curlers set in his short hair. It had grown out some, but it was so thick that getting it stretched onto the curlers was a struggle in and of itself. “Gross indecency?”

“Homosexuality, in polite Queen’s English,” Charles said simply. 

“… Well, if what you and I are doing is any indication, so far it’s only been indecent.” Maxwell smiled coyly over his shoulder, and Charles smirked back.

“Hush you, or I won’t read more.”

“Carry on, Major baby.”

“That’s what I’m meant to say to you, Corporal darling.”

Maxwell smiled as he listened to Charles reading, drifting through the story as if it was playing out right before him. It was a terrible tale, one of pain and suffering and great debauchery all in-between, but it was still so very romantic, and Charles couldn’t help but wish that it would never end (or hope that Honoria could get her hands on a similarly evocative book without Charles having to _ask_ for such an embarrassing thing).

 _“Why is it, Dorian, that a man like the Duke of Berwick leaves the room of a club when you enter it?”_ Charles looked up as Maxwell proceeded to bundle himself, his silky white negligee shimmering over his form as Maxwell pulled his white flannel nightgown over his head. Curlers were held in place with a blue silk scarf, expertly tied, with the ends tucked and pinned in place with bobby pins so that it wouldn’t come undone in the night. 

_“Why is it that so many gentlemen in London will neither go to your house or invite you to theirs? You used to be a friend of Lord Cawdor. I met him at dinner last week. Your name happened to come up in conversation, in connection with the miniatures you have lent to the exhibition at the Dudley. Cawdor curled his lip and said that you might have the most artistic tastes, but that you were a man whom no pure-minded girl should be allowed to know, and whom no chaste woman should sit in the same room with.”_ Maxwell spritzed a precious small amount of perfume on his neck, the scent of oranges and mixed spices filling his tent as he gathered up his pale blue housecoat. Charles forced himself to keep reading, even as he desperately wished he could reverse all of Maxwell’s hard work. 

_“I reminded him that I was a friend of yours, and asked him what he meant. He told me. He told me right out before everybody. It was horrible! Why is your friendship so fatal to young men? There was that wretched boy in the Guards who committed suicide. You were his great friend.”_ He couldn’t help but wonder about the young soldiers who would pinch and pull at Maxwell’s clothing and legs, even after the discovery of his gender.

 _“There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England, with a tarnished name. You and he were inseparable.”_ Charles thought of General Bradley Barker, who often asked about Maxwell in his phone calls to Henry Blake. Maxwell had a standing invitation to any grand soiree thrown in Tokyo, and Charles dreaded the day that a jeep would arrive with a Sergeant to escort Maxwell to the next party with Barker. 

_“What about Adrian Singleton and his dreadful end? What about Lord Kent’s only son, and his career? I met his father yesterday in St. James’s Street. He seemed broken with shame and sorrow. What about the young Duke of Perth? What sort of life has he got now? What gentleman would associate with him?”_ Maxwell sat beside him, his hand sliding over Charles’ arm as he gently cuddled up to the man, listening to his voice as he read the dreadful lecture that Basil gave to his muse and idol.

 _“Dorian, Dorian,”_ Maxwell, Maxwell, _“your reputation is infamous. I know you and Harry are great friends. I say nothing about that now, but surely you need not have made his sister’s name a by-word.”_ Charles wondered, quietly, privately, if his heart would end up broken in the end. If Laverne’s love of Maxwell would call him back to Toledo. Where was there room for them? After this police action that was really a war. Certainly Charles had money, but who could buy normalcy? Who could buy an untarnished reputation? 

Maxwell’s fingers took the book from him, and Charles turned his head, only for his lips to be captured by Maxwell’s warm, soft mouth. He couldn’t help the way his body relaxed, unwound, the way his hands cradled Maxwell’s jaw, feeling the texture of the Creme de Menthe that the younger man had worked into his skin. 

It was a domestic costume, this one. Less provocative and sexy than Charles knew everyone was used to seeing on Maxwell, but this was what he wanted, back home in Boston. Maxwell perched at a vanity beside the window, preparing himself for the night, while Charles read to him from their bed, waiting and watching and longing just as much for Maxwell then as he did when he saw the young man in his silks and satins and soft velvets. 

“We should get to bed, Major.”

“Five more minutes,” Charles whispered. “Just let me kiss you.”


	18. George

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles makes the mistake of sympathizing with Private George Weston, and Burns goes and blabs a secret.

“I hate sunrise. Those damn birds will start singing in a minute.” Pierce groaned as he rubbed his eyes. 

“Who are they to remind us of happiness?” Charles sighed, nearly hunched over his mug of coffee. Nearly a year in Korea and he had nearly forgotten what it was like to sit properly. The chair backs were too low, or nonexistent, his back was in constant pain, the tables rarely lifted high enough that Charles could stand comfortably over them, so he ended up looming over them, like Dracula over a sleeping maiden. His long fingers ached to the bone after a thirty-eight hour day, the ache moving up to his wrists, his forearms, his elbows, inching to his shoulders like a centipede crawling beneath his skin.

“You go back on again in an hour, Chuckles.” McIntyre reminded him and Charles groaned, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, trying to block out the mess tent. He had once thought that his days at Boston General were grueling and brutal. What a fool he had been.

“Amazing.” Pierce sighed, staring out the mess tent’s flaps where they had been rolled up, leaving only the mosquito netting in place as a window.

“The sunrise?” Nurse Baker asked, looking at Pierce wearily.

Pierce shook his head, “The O.R. The amount of punishment the human body can take and still survive.”

“The doctors or the patients?” McIntyre asked, flexing his hands, rubbing at the aching bones that likely matched the set that Charles carried.

“Which are we?” Pierce asked, looking over when Charles stood, holding out his empty coffee cup to the man. “If you get me another cup of coffee I’ll kiss you.”

“Save it. I’ll go play mother.” Charles scoffed, but his exhaustion made him unwilling to fight the man. He looked at McIntyre and Baker, collecting their mugs and carrying them over to the coffee machine.

“Some bruises that kid Frank and I were working on had.” He overheard Pierce say. “Private Weston.”

“It’s the Korean War, there’s a lot of it going around lately.” McIntyre shrugged, causing the desk to groan under his elbows.

“Not with those bruises.” Pierce sounded as exhausted as Charles felt as he turned the tap for the coffee machine, expecting the smell of burnt coffee to come pouring out. “You don’t get bruises like that in combat. Looked like somebody used him for batting practice.”

Nothing came out, and Charles sighed, placing the mugs aside. “We’re out of coffee.”

Perhaps a shower would bring him back to the land of the living long enough for his six hour post-op shift.

* * *

“Wounded three times? You’re quite a soldier, soldier!” Burns’ voice was strident and Charles had no idea how he managed to be so cheerful towards the wounded boy when he had just spent hours in O.R. then post-op.

The boy didn’t seem to think that Burns’ praise was worth much as he stared at the man, “No trick getting hurt in a war.”

“You’re too modest.” Houlihan said with a smile, sitting on the edge of the young man’s bed.

“It’s a privilege,” Frank smiled, sitting down as well, nearly crushing the boy’s I.V.. “I wish I were there to help all you wonderful guys fight the pink stain.”

“Sir?” The boy frowned in confusion.

Charles checked on the chart of another patient, the unconscious boy mercifully fever-free. “The Major means Communism.” Charles said, smiling at the blonde young man. He looked like every good old apple pie eating American boy that had come through here blown to pieces.

“It really makes me see red!” Burns scowled, glaring at Charles.

Private Weston, he had to be with those bruises that Pierce had described, laughed hard enough to make his bed shake. “Yes, sir.”

“So we mustn’t waste our strength fighting amongst ourselves, must we?” Burns said, sounding like he was attempting to be a co-conspirator in some great secret between him and Private Weston.

The boy’s eyes went round and Charles knew, deep down, what could cause such terror, “I don’t get you, sir?”

“Your bruises. You’ve been brawling.” Charles explained, looking at the young man. “Or have had the daylights beaten out of you.” 

Burns nodded, obviously only hearing the first half of Charles’ statement, “I’d have you reprimanded if you weren’t such a good soldier.”

“It’s a free country, Major Burns, he is entitled to his own private brawls.” Charles said, turning to glare at Burns. “And he needs rest. I’m here to relieve you, so go and be relieved. You can even be relieved by Major Houlihan since Nurse Kellye will be here soon.’

Burns huffed through his nostrils even as Houlihan stuttered around a denial, “Winchester, why is it that we always turn up in the same place?”

Charles sighed, exhausted, as he stared at the other man. “I don’t know, Major Burns, wherever I go you seem to turn up.” He leaned closer to the man, uncomfortably close for both of them. “Are you obsessed with me?”

* * *

“Um… Ah, Major Winchester? Miss?”

Maxwell turned from where he lounged outside his tent, his foot resting on Charles’ knee as the man painted his toenails “truly ruby” red. “Yes?” He asked, cigar between his lips as he looked at Private Weston. “If you need some concealer I got plenty, but it might be a few shades off.”

“Uh, no, I… I was just hoping to speak to the Major.”

Charles looked at Private Weston, then patted the table beside him, handing the bottle of nail polish to Maxwell for him to hold, dipping the tiny brush into it again. “Is there anything wrong, Private? I was hardly expecting you to be up and about so soon.”

“I feel fine.” Private Weston sat on the table, wringing his walking stick between his hands, his bruised and split knuckles straining at the scabs, threatening to split open again. “Matter of fact, I was wondering when I could get out, get back to my outfit.”

“You want out of here? After the army arranged this… Paradise?” Charles asked, skeptical at the prospect of _anyone_ but those deserving of a section 8 wanting to return to the front.

“Don’t let the mud and the lice and the fleas fool you.” Maxwell said with a smile. “We got bellydancers set to come in on the next supply run.”

Weston’s lips twitched into a smile, but he didn’t laugh, “No kidding, doc, how soon?”

Charles finished on foot, giving Maxwell’s ankle a light pat and letting the young man move his foot before he collected the other. “We have some tests that are being sent out, we’ll know whether you are fit for duty in a day or two.”

“Even if the tests come back against me, could you still send me back?” Weston’s voice shook softly, and that made Charles pause, turning to look at him fully, Maxwell’s foot resting lightly on his knee.

“Why are you so insistent to return to the front?” Charles asked, his eyes boring into the young soldier’s own eyes. 

Weston looked down, shuffling his feet, before he cleared his throat, “Listen, doc, I’ve watched you around the hospital… I… I know that you’re…”

Charles raised an imperious brow, looking at the private, straightening enough that he could look down his nose at the soldier, “What?”

“… You noticed my bruises, right?” Weston asked, obviously believing that the man wouldn’t harm him for his implication.

“Very nice work, did you do those yourself?” Maxwell asked, smiling reassuringly. “Gimme the name of your exterior decorator, I just can’t do anything with this tent.” 

Maxwell’s gentle encouragement and teasing seemed to give Weston some measure of courage. “Well, doc, two guys got beat up in my outfit.” Weston looked at Charles quietly. “One colored, and one homosexual.”

Charles was silent only for a moment. “I never would have guessed that you were a negro.”

Weston gave a small, sad smile, and Charles felt his heart ache for the boy. He was exactly the same as Charles had been once. Young and terrified, trying to hide something that was burnt into his marrow. “Doc, I’m begging you to let me go back. You have to understand. It is important for me to complete my tour of duty. Now more than ever.”

Charles could understand that. Was he not in the same boat, sitting in the 4077th, abandoned there by a family that hoped he died honorably in the military, a war hero, so that he could hide behind that honor for all of the dishonorable things that he had ever done in his life.

“Okay, Weston,” Charles said softly, though he did not smile at the young man. “I will keep your secret, and do my best to get you out of here.”

Weston smiled, leaving the two men and Maxwell smiled at Charles. “If we weren’t outside I’d kiss you.”

“Whatever for?”

“You _do_ have a heart. Underneath all your bluster and high breeding and being polite.” Maxwell laughed. “If only you didn’t hide it so well, I could tell people and they’d believe me.”

Charles couldn’t help his own smile, gently squeezing Maxwell’s ankle, reaching down to gently continue his task of painting the last of Maxwell’s toenails. “Well, I think that my painting your nails would prove that well enough?”

“Nah, everyone thinks you lost a bet with Hawkeye and Trapper.” Maxwell smiled.

“Isn’t that to our benefit?” Charles leaned down and blew on Maxwell’s nails gently. “There. All done.”

Maxwell leaned back in his chair, draping a wrist over his shoulder. “Peel me a grape, slave.” He said, melodramatically. “I hunger.”

“I’m not sure about grapes, but I have some wine I’ve been saving for your birthday.”

“Bring it around tonight after dinner,” Maxwell lifted his feet off of Charles’ lap, his ankle bracelets jingling softly as he slipped on his sandals. “I’ll wear those heels you like, with the ribbons at the ankles.”

Charles smiled, watching as Maxwell entered his tent, and then stood himself, moving to pace towards the Swamp, opening the door just in time to hear a shaving cream covered Burns say, with more vehemence than he had ever heard over any of Pierce and McIntyre’s numerous antics and pranks, “There’s one of _those_ in camp.”

Pierce asked with an exhausted voice, looking at the man with a frown, “One of _those_ , Frank? Which one of _those_ thoses do you mean?”

Charles picked his way through the tent and Burns scowled, “One of those types that don’t like girls.” He bumped his shoulder against Pierce’s in an attempt at being understood. “Get it?”

“Oh, one of _those_ those.” McIntyre rolled his eyes and Charles scoffed, sitting down at his desk. 

“Leave it to Major Burns to find any reason to alienate someone.”

Burns scowled, glaring at Charles before he spoke up, “Private Weston. Had a patient came in this morning, knows some of the guys in his outfit.” He shuddered and scowled. “I think it’s disgusting.”

Pierce sighed and shook his head, making a move on the checker board littered with shot glasses and sake glasses. “What business is it of yours, Frank? Your move, Trapper.”

McIntyre made his move and muttered under his breath, “How about to another tent?”

Burns slapped his shaving towel down onto his bed, standing up and scowling at his tentmates. Charles observed the man’s meltdown, the way his voice picked up in pitch, and wondered how far he could push the man before he toppled over the edge. “Don’t you understand that he’s not normal!”

“What’s _normal_ , Major Burns?” Charles asked. “Please, enlighten me so that I might never do what you consider normal.”

“Normal is everybody doing the same thing.” Burns snapped. “Not that you’d know about that, deserter.”

“What about individuality?” McIntyre asked, making his move on the checker board and drinking the captured piece.

“Individuality is fine, as long as we all do it together.” Burns nodded and Charles couldn’t help but laugh, cruel and humorless, at the man. “That soldier, that _powder puff_ , is just the kind of weakness the enemy can exploit!” Frank shouted, stamping his foot like a child having a tantrum.

Charles scowled, standing to loom over the other man, his head brushing the underside of the tent, “He’s been wounded in combat four times, Major Burns, the closest you ever got to a wound was a piece of eggshell in your eye when that sniper shot up the camp.” He stepped closer, and Burns stepped back. “Private Weston wishes to return to his outfit, who brutally beat him for something that he had now power over. That is courage beyond anything that your sniveling, screaming, cowardly hide could ever gather.” Burns was near the door to the Swamp and Charles watched as Pierce opened the door with a cane hooked around the handle. “If you think that you could do half as well as him under fire with your entire outfit hating you, then I have enough money in my pockets that I could arrange it for you to be beaten daily for the rest of the war!” Charles leaned closer and Burns scrambled backwards, stumbling as he stepped out of the swamp and into a the perpetual mud of the compound, a few servicemen and nurses laughing as they watched Burns scramble and attempt to stand, covered in dirt and shaving cream. 

“Y-you, you-”

“I’m quite glad we had this talk, Major Burns,” Charles said, the picture of politeness. “Now run along and go find yourself a brain.” And slammed the door to the Swamp closed. 

Pierce cackled with glee, stomping his feet on the ground and looking up at Charles. “Beautiful, I’ve never wanted to kiss you more than in this moment.”

“If you touch me I will slap you so hard you’ll be sober for the first time this entire war.” Charles said, sitting down at his desk to draft a letter to his sister.

“Think he’ll make waves?” McIntyre asked, watching Burns storm over to Houlihan’s tent.

“Of course.” Charles said with a sigh.

* * *

“Major Winchester!” O’Reilly whispered as he raced into the post-op ward, and Charles blinked at him. As far as he knew, O’Reilly still considered him some strange interloper. The boy very rarely spoke to him, but it seemed that the previous day’s theatrics involving his dressing down of Burns had made an impression not just on O’Reilly but the rest of the camp. The nurses smiled at him, the NCOs saluted him, even though he waved the gesture off. Even the cook had made sure to give him a less burnt pork chop at dinner. That didn’t even begin to touch on the way Maxwell had kissed him the moment he walked through the door into the Corporal’s tent. “Major Winchester, Major Burns is writing a letter about Private Weston. He wants to give him a dishonorable discharge.”

“Major Burns is… Damnit!” Charles snarled as he placed the clipboard down. “Get-”

“Already got Captain Jones, he’s headed over here to take over.”

“Thank you, Corporal O’Reilly.” Charles said, his white coat flying behind him like, as Maxwell would say, a bat out of hell. 

He opened his mouth, well prepared to shout down Burns again, when he saw the man wrist deep in his stationary box, holding a letter to Honoria that he had been meaning to send before the last deluge. 

Of all the letters that Frank Burns could have found and gotten his ferrety little hands on, it was the one where Charles spilled his heart out to his sister, spoke about Maxwell and the true extent of his feelings, detailed his plans to speak to his lawyers, to set Maxwell up as his heir, to tie him up with so much red tape that they would be married in everything but the church ceremony.

“Y-you’re one of _them_!” Burns shouted, staring at the other Major. “One of those _disgusting_ perverts! And I’ve shared a tent with you for a _year_!”

“Give me that letter.,” Charles held out his hand. “It is a personal correspondence between myself and my sister!”

Burns stared at him, frozen in place, before he grabbed his typewriter, some of Charles’ paper, the letter, and scrambled out, dodging past Charles as the larger man lunged for him.

“Burns!” Charles roared, turning to grab at the other Major, only to be restrained by McIntyre and Pierce, who came running across the compound, attempting to keep Charles from breaking his Hippocratic oath of “do no harm.”

“Calm down, Chuckles, calm down, just let him go.”

“No, no, no, no, no that letter. He has my letter!” Charles shouted, frantic and wild-eyed. “He’s going to write a letter about Weston and then he’s going to write one about _me_ and _Maxwell_.”

“ _Maxwell_?” Pierce stared at him. “You mean… You and Klinger?”

Charles sat down heavily on the edge of his bed, lacing his fingers and pressing them to his forehead. “Pierce. McIntyre. I… If I am sent home because of the contents of that letter, written to my sister in confidence… I will lose everything.” He looked up at the two. “It was a letter detailing my plans to speak to a lawyer, orders to her on how to move my money into different banks, to make sure my family could not touch it. I was going to put Maxwell as the heir to my entire estate. Houses, cars, money, all of it. I was going to have her make phone calls, telegrams, going to make sure that all of the red tape was in the right place so that when this entire…” He choked. “God-forsaken police action was finished, I could take Maxwell home with me.”

“… You couldn’t have gotten a silk robe?” Pierce asked, staring at him. “Or a turtle with MacArthur painted on it’s shell?”

Charles rubbed his eyes, feeling his heart pounding so fast he might have a heart attack. 

“Okay… Okay,” McIntyre looked at Pierce. “Okay, we’ll… We’ll get that letter. And get Burns off your back.”

“What do you want for it?” Charles asked, exhausted. “How much?”

“Nothing,” Pierce said simply. “You’re a folk hero now, the man who humbled Frank Burns. What would we be if we let you get sent away in disgrace?”

* * *

Stepping into the mess tent it was clear that Charles had been the subject of much speculation amongst the 4077th’s personnel. The conversation lowered when he entered, it didn’t stop entirely which Charles took as a blessing. The cook, who had given him good rations the day previous warily looked at him and refused to serve him more than measly portions of the mess tent’s outright inedible food. Perhaps it was a mercy not a punishment.

He made his way to a relatively empty table, and the nurse that was seated there stood and left quickly, leaving Charles alone as he sighed and ate his breakfast slowly, trying to imagine that it was anything other than what it was. He tried to think of a more gracious restaurant, perhaps one on the cape, with the wind whipping about his face, breathing it in as he ate eggs benedict with orange juice made from real oranges and coffee that hadn’t been burnt in the machine. 

Hearing the click of heels, Charles looked up, staring straight ahead as he listened to that familiar sound walking through the chow line, then over towards him. Charles looked up as Maxwell moved to sit beside him, smiling at Charles quietly. 

“Maxwell, don’t-”

“Everyone knows, Charles.” Maxwell said softly. “Burns made sure to blab to anyone who could stand to listen to him about the letter.”

“All the more reason for you to not be near me, at least it can look like it was just an old man being a sentimental fool.” Charles grasped at his coffee mug, staring into space. 

Maxwell rested his delicate hand on Charles’ wrist, gently rubbing at the bone before he leaned in and kissed Charles’ lips gently, turning the man’s head with his other hand, forcing the doctor close. Their noses bumped briefly, Charles’ long and straight nose pressing to Maxwell’s cheek as Maxwell’s own nose pressed to Charles’ own cheek. 

It was a chaste kiss, despite how long it lasted, and by the time they pulled back, the silence of the mess tent was deafening. 

“I’m not Major Houlihan, Major,” Maxwell whispered, staring up at Charles with a smile. “There’s no way I’d let you make me the other woman. You’re all mine.”

And suddenly, it was like gracious dining had returned to the world. It didn’t matter now that everyone knew. He had not been discharged dishonorably, McIntyre and Pierce had confirmed that Burns had torn up the letters, all of them, and Maxwell was still here, still his. 

“Major Winchester?”

Private Straminsky looked at him, holding a small plate with some half-stale donuts. He smiled shakily and held out the plate. “My uncle is… A friend of Dorothy.”

“Dorothy?” Charles asked, confused.

Maxwell laughed and grinned up at him. “She went over the rainbow, get it?”

Charles shook his head, looking down at Maxwell in confusion. 

“He’s, um… He’s…” Straminsky gave a half shrug. “A… A ho-homo… You know?”

“Ah, yes, I believe I get the picture, Private Straminsky.” Charles smiled. 

“You’re good people Igor.” Maxwell smiled, and Straminsky smiled before he held out his hand to Charles.

All eyes in the tent were on them, and Charles could feel it. He had spent his entire life trying to keep his personal life out of the spotlight. He delighted in basking in the professional limelight, but being a star in his own personal life made him feel like a shrinking violet. 

He shook Private Straminsky’s hand and smiled at him, close-lipped and polite. “Maxwell is right. You are good people.”

Straminsky smiled broadly, giving a firm shake. “Got these for you, Major.” He passed the plate of donuts, and Charles took one, before he held the plate to Maxwell.

“Sweets for the sweet.” Charles said softly, and Straminsky grinned even more broadly at that.

“Careful, Major, Igor is gonna start spreading a new rumor.”

“Oh?” Charles looked at the Private and raised a brow.

“Just that you have a heart.” Straminsky said simply, and Charles couldn’t help but laugh, a full belly thing that made his world feel just a little bit brighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a cookie for anyone who can catch all of the Wizard of Oz references I put in this chapter. There's 4.
> 
> Final Chapter of Season 2


	19. Iron Guts Kelly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> General "Iron Guts" Kelly is giving a snap inspection to the 4077th and Charles refuses to honor the man in death in the way he is accustomed to in life.
> 
> (This is the first NSFW chapter, skip if that is not your cup of tea.)

“Bet he lied about his age to get in,” Pierce mumbled from behind Charles, working on a young man with what must have been five pounds of shrapnel in his torso alongside McIntyre.

“He won’t have to lie about his injuries to get out.” McIntyre murmured, sighing as he dropped another piece of shrapnel into the tray. 

“I lied about my age, didn’t help me a lick.” Maxwell said as he held up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for Charles to take a bite out of, the older man managing to mumble a thanks as he took three large bites in one mouthful.

“How young did you go, Klinger?” McIntyre asked, a grin apparent in his voice.

Maxwell’s eyes were glittering with mischief as he turned the sandwich so that Charles could eat more of it. “Fifteen years old. Would have helped if I didn’t have a five o’ clock shadow that made me look thirty.” A wave of exhausted laughter rippled through the O.R., and Charles smiled as Maxwell put his mask back up.

“Pst, pst, he’s on his way over here!” O’Reilly came scrambling into the O.R., causing the personnel within to look up in weary confusion.

Pierce was the one to ask, “Who’s over here on his way?”

“General Kelly, Iron Guts!” The young clerk looked towards the scrub room. “He’s here for a snap inspection!” 

“Oh rats, the one day I don’t go to the beauty parlor,” Maxwell said, and Charles chuckles as Maxwell dabbed at his forehead briefly, cleaning off the sweat gathered there. “At least I’m wearing my nurse’s uniform, wouldn’t want to be caught out of uniform by the General.”

“Corporal darling, bring out the good silverware and fine crystal,” Charles said, continuing to work on the young soldier on his table. 

“This _is_ the good silverware, Major baby.” Maxwell stepped aside to gather more clean towels darting around O’Reilly as heavy boots thudded along the O.R. floor. 

“Doctors, we have a guest.” Blake said, shaky and nervous, “Captains Pierce, McIntyre, and Major Winchester. This is Lieutenant General Kelly and Colonel Wortman.”

“Excuse us for not saluting, General,” Charles called out wryly, a stream of blood sprayed across his chest. 

“Our hands are all full of “icch”.” Pierce mumbled.

“What seems to be wrong with this soldier, Major?” General Kelly asked, gruff and attempting at sounding good-humored. 

“He has a collapsed lung and is missing a large chunk of the other. I am currently attempting to - ah!” Another stream of blood hit Charles, this time in the eye. It burned and stung painfully, but Charles merely turned his head. “Corporal, my eye, please.”

“Right away, sir.” Maxwell was already at his side, an irrigation bulb in his hand. He squirted a few pumps into Charles’ eye and Charles allowed him to wipe away the blood. When his vision cleared slightly he nodded. “That’s good, thank you, Corporal.”

General Kelly leered, his low voice rumbling out, “Ah, and whatever would we do without these… Lovely angels of mercy.” 

Even out of the corner of his eye, Charles could see the man’s eyes obviously trailing over Maxwell’s long legs. “Please, General, don’t contaminate the corpsman.”

“Corpsman? I thought he was a nurse.” General Kelly asked, with the usual surprise that most Generals got when first confronted with Corporal Maxwell Q. Klinger in the flesh.

“Not yet, General Kelly.” Maxwell laughed, smiling behind his mask with his usual friendly attitude. “But they haven’t invented a dress that I don’t look good in, so why not show it off?”

* * *

O.R. was always brutal in Korea, but with General Kelly and Colonel Wortman standing in with O.R. it was even more difficult. Starstruck nurses and nervous corpsmen made the entire process take twice as long as it should have, even without taking into account constantly having to dance around the two men who refused to move from their obstructive positions. 

“Buy you a drink, Major?” Maxwell asked as he threw his mask into the laundry hamper, Charles shrugging into his fatigue jacket slowly. He felt hunched and exhausted and a drink before bed sounded perfectly reasonable.

“My place or yours?” He asked. 

“Let’s swing by the officer’s club and we can get a bottle to share at my place.” Maxwell smiled at Charles, warm and weary, resisting the urge to cuddle up to the man in the middle of the scrub room.

It was still cool and crisp outside, the cold of winter not quite gone from the Korean spring. They entered the officer’s club and Charles couldn’t help but feel his mood sour at the sight of the visiting General and Colonel standing at the bar, talking with Colonel Blake. Charles and Maxwell hesitated, attempting to take a synchronized step back out of the club, only for Colonel Blake, in his eternal awkwardness, to see them and latch onto the idea of using them as a distraction.

“Ah, General Kelly, you didn’t get to meet him properly earlier, but this is-” Colonel Blake gestured to Maxwell, and General Kelly turned, a grin splitting his scarred, war-worn face.

He held out his hand and pulled Maxwell away from Charles’ side, kissing the back of Maxwell’s hand in a very gentlemanly fashion. “The lovely not-a-nurse form earlier.”

“Corporal Maxwell Q. Klinger.” Maxwell pulled his hand away from the General, giving him a smart salute. “Corpsman, nurse, and I’ve been told I’m a terrific dancer.”

“Not General Bradley Barker’s Corporal Klinger?” General Kelly grinned even more. “From the New Year’s party! You were some sight.”

“One of my best dresses,” Maxwell said simply, grinning even as General Kelly leaned against the bar, boxing Maxwell in slightly. “I handed out signed photographs and everything.”

General Kelly’s eyes remained fixed on Maxwell as he spoke, calling out to his aide, “Uh, Colonel Wortman, why don’t you go with Major Winchester here and check the unit’s blood bank inventory, and see how closely their shrapnel disposal conforms to the Pentagon’s new Franistan Plan.”

Charles felt his hackles raise, like a great dog sensing danger. He stepped closer, his hands tucked into his pockets as he tried to put some space between Maxwell and the General. “General, I believe that Major Burns would be more suited to this duty, as he actually _enjoys_ being in the military.”

General Kelly glared at Charles, his eyes narrowing, “That’s an order Major, or do you want to be a Captain again?”

Charles’ eyes widened and he looked at Maxwell, who gave him a brief, reassuring smile even as his own eyes glanced worriedly at General Kelly. There was a silent conversation, but in the end, they decided that having Charles as a Major would benefit them more. He’d make it very quick with Colonel Wortman, then interrupt any romantic advances General Kelly tried to make. “Of course. Colonel Wortman, come with me.”

* * *

Charles finished with Colonel Wortman two hours later, not for lack of trying to rid himself of the man earlier. The O-Club was crowded with off duty personnel, but no General or Corporal could be found there. The V.I.P. tent was still empty, so Charles moved to the last place he wanted to find General Kelly.

“Corporal?” Charles knocked on the door, seeing a light on within. 

“Come in, Major.” Maxwell’s voice was subdued, eerily calm, without the usual sing-song friendliness that colored his every word.

Charles entered, and immediately his gaze was drawn to Maxwell, sitting at his vanity, holding a cake of foundation in his hand. There was a basin beside him, filled with blood-tinted water. Even beneath the layer of foundation that Maxwell had managed, Charles could see his cheek bruised, and his lip split. 

“Maxwell, what _happened_ to you?” Charles asked, moving to stand beside Maxwell. He picked up the cloth and cleaned the newly applied makeup off, staring at the Corporal’s bruised face, making a catalog of every small injury that had been inflicted on his love’s face.

“General Kelly happened.” Maxwell’s soft dusky pink negligee was ripped and torn and his fingers were shaking minutely as he lifted them to Charles’ wrists, clutching at them as Charles cradled his face with his broad, gentle palms.

“Where did he go?” Charles asked, his eyes cold as ice, matching his quiet voice. “I will send him to his grave.” Charles had never known that he was capable of feeling a truly murderous rage, that he might truly be able to kill a man. But the bruises on Maxwell’s neck, shaped like fingers, and another two on his collarbone shaped like a mouth that was not his own, made Charles see red.

“He beat you to it, Major.” Maxwell gestured to his cot, and Charles turned sharply. He froze when he saw that General Kelly was still on it, but rigid and still.

As much as he hated the man in that moment, he had to be sure. He went to the bedside, checking neck, wrist, and chest. There was no pulse, though the General was still warm. It couldn’t have been more than half an hour ago that this happened. While Charles had been going through which blood was the most popular in the 4077th, Maxwell had been pinned down by the General, kicking and struggling against the man’s grip.

“Maxwell, why didn’t you _get_ anyone.” Charles asked, cupping Maxwell’s face gently, drawing him close and kissing his temple softly.

There were no tears, Maxwell just sounded shaky, embarrassed, as he whispered, “I didn’t want anyone to see me like this.” He gestured at the makeup on his vanity by way of explanation, then his hand rested on his own chest. There was stillness between them for a long moment before Maxwell let out a frustrated whine. “He ruined my nice negligee.” 

Charles kissed Maxwell’s forehead, his nose, then gently his lips, tasting the blood from where the younger man’s lower lip had split. “Maxwell, you stay here.” He pulled off his own fatigue shirt and wrapped Maxwell in the fabric that smelled like him, like his aftershave. Maxwell shivered and clutched the shirt around his body, pressed his nose to the collar, a good sign that Charles took to mean that he would stay put, even with the body of General Kelly on the cot not three feet away. “I will be back.”

“Colonel Wortman!” Charles pounded on the V.I.P. door before he opened it, not waiting for a response from the Colonel. The man’s head was covered in shaving cream and Charles glared at him as the man stood.

“Major, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Taking you to General Kelly,” Charles said, gesturing towards the door. Wortman’s expression melted into something concerned as he looked at Charles’ lack of fatigue shirt and his wild-eyed look. 

“Is the General ill?” He asked, not even wiping off his head as he followed Charles down the compound to Maxwell’s tent.

“He is well beyond ill,” Charles opened the door to the tent and gestured within. “He’s dead.”

Wortman froze. “Dead?” He whispered, poking his head within the tent, looking around until his eyes landed on the General laying on the cot. “He can’t be dead!”

“Colonel, I studied a wide variety of dead in medical school, this man is dead.” Charles moved to stand beside Maxwell, who was still practically frozen in place on the chair beside his vanity. 

Wortman didn’t seem to care about the living soldier in the tent, who flinched and reared back when Wortman raised his voice, glaring at Charles. “But he-he-he was fine a little while ago! What happened?”

“I just slapped him, Colonel! Honest!” Maxwell stood, Charles’ shirt sliding off his shoulders as he shook, wringing his hands. He looked like he might shatter apart as he stared at Colonel Wortman, who took a moment to finally lay eyes on the distressed Corporal. “He came over here after I had a shower and he just, he was going to - I just slapped him to get him to stop!”

Wortman looked from Charles to Maxwell, and then back, his jaw setting as Charles gently bundled Maxwell close once more. “Myocardial infarction, the increased excitement of the assault must have been too much for what was left of his heart.” Charles’ gaze was piercing into Colonel Wortman’s own eyes, his voice cold and quiet as he protectively held Maxwell close. “Have Captain Pierce and Captain McIntyre examine him if you don’t believe that.” 

“No, no, no one else!” Wortman looked at the General, and then set his jaw determinedly as he looked at Charles. “He didn’t die here… He died in action at the front. That’s what the headlines will read. Leading his troops against overwhelming odds, with shells bursting all around him, until that one shell with his name on it caught up with him.” Colonel Wortman was nearly nose to nose with Charles, still shorter than Charles, enough that the surgeon could look down his nose at the man as he growled, “That’s how General “Iron Guts” Kelly died.”

“… I see.” Charles scoffed, glaring down at Wortman. “Not while trying to tear the negligee off of a male NCO wearing heels.” 

Wortman pulled back, looking chagrined as he cleared his throat and gestured to the dead General. “All you have to do is sign the death certificate, Major. I’ll fill in the details.”

“I refuse.” Charles said simply, staring at the man, who jumped at the prospect of being disobeyed. “I have sworn the Hippocratic oath. I swore never to misrepresent.”

“History demands that the General die a glorious death!” Colonel Wortman shouted, making Maxwell flinch and hide somewhat in Charles’ side, still only dressed in his negligee and so very soft and vulnerable without his frilled and lace armor.

“Then he shouldn’t have been preying on vulnerable young Corporals with his health in such peril.” Charles bit out, his eyes narrowed as he turned and gathered Maxwell’s housecoat. “Come along, Corporal, we’ll bring this up with Colonel Blake.”

Wortman stood in the doorway of the tent, sputtering out, “I’ll see you both at court-martial!”

Maxwell’s eyes widened in terror and Charles placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “We’ll be the ones with our hands on the Bible, Colonel Wortman.”

“Wait!” Wortman worked his jaw, glared at them, then breathed deeply. “Doctor, I appeal to your patriotism, your sense of fair play.”

Charles scoffed, “You may appeal to one or the other, not both.”

“Just one favor, Major.” Wortman gestured helplessly to General Kelly’s body. “He’s too heavy for me to lift, help me carry him to the ambulance, I’ll go from there.”

“Stay here, Corporal,” Charles said simply, guiding Maxwell to sit back down at his vanity. “I will return, momentarily.”

It took a precious ten minutes for them to maneuver and lift the General out of Maxwell’s tent and into the compound. He was too heavy for Charles to lift alone, but with Colonel Wortman assisting, they managed to get General Kelly into the ambulance. Once he was inside, unceremoniously thrown in by Charles, like so much refuse, the doctor slammed the doors shut, ignoring the thanks of Colonel Wortman, before he returned to Maxwell’s tent. 

Maxwell shivered as the door opened, his eyes turning to look up at Charles before he choked on a breath, the beginnings of a sob. Charles was amazed how he had held the sound in for what must have been at least an hour. Charles collected Maxwell into his arms, drawing him close so that he could soothe the trembling creature in his arms. 

“Come along, darling,” He murmured, guiding Maxwell to the edge of his bed, kissing his forehead, his bruised cheek, under his eye, his lips, and jaw. “Let’s get you changed, hmm?”

Charles gently inched the negligee up and that seemed to spur Maxwell into action, gripping Charles’ jaw in his own calloused hands, pulling him close to kiss him deeply, fitting their mouths together desperately.

It wasn’t that Charles had never had sex, or kissed for that matter, it was simply that all of his experience had been either experimental or transactional at best. He remembered a few torrid nights with Stanley Robbins, the two of them in residency and the only ones in their class that had even remotely similar tastes. Stanley had just been a lecher who could find something sexually arousing in anyone, and Charles had been quite enchanted with the man’s boldness and straight-forward desire. Maxwell reminded Charles of the men he had slept with before, even though he was much younger than anyone Charles had ever taken to bed. He was demanding and bold and knew that he wanted Charles, even if he didn’t know exactly what he wanted.

“Maxwell,” Charles murmured, kissing Maxwell softly, drawing him close, deepening their kiss, hoping to erase the touch of the General that had been struck down by a God that Charles didn’t believe in. “Darling, you don’t have to-”

“I don’t want to think of him.” Maxwell whispered, his lips pressing to Charles’ firmly before he pulled back to stare at him, his dark eyes glittering with something that Charles couldn’t put his fingers on. “I only want to think of you when I’m touched.” He gripped Charles’ hand, kissing his palm gently, before he guided it down his chest, over soft satin and lace, over Maxwell’s freshly shaven legs.

“You’re certain, you did mention saving yourself for marriage?” He didn’t believe in questioning someone’s decisions, but he wanted this certainty. 

“Yes, Charles,” Maxwell stroked his fingers over Charles’ jaw, his neck, his shoulders. He was so _small_ in Charles’ arms, Charles could feel his fingertips barely touching where they wrapped around the young man’s waist, rumpling the pink satin with his grip. “I could never regret you.”

Their lips pressed close once again and Charles took charge. 

“Do you wish to keep this?” The man asked as he fingered at Maxwell’s negligee, staring at the place where Maxwell’s dark thigh met with dusky pink satin. 

“No,” Maxwell choked. “I couldn’t wear it again.”

It didn’t take much more than that for Charles to rip it clean off of Maxwell’s body, splitting the already slightly torn satin and leaving a run of lace fluttering to the floor. Maxwell’s pink heels with the ribbons tied about his ankles would be too much of a struggle to remove, and Charles didn’t want to remove them anyway, not with the way they made Maxwell’s legs look. He gripped behind the young man’s knee and leaned down to kiss at the side of his knee, running up his thigh. He watched Maxwell’s stomach tremble, his chest heave.

Charles bit at Maxwell’s inner thigh, and those dark eyes snapped down, Maxwell sitting up on his elbows to watch him as Charles smirked smugly at him. “Something the matter, Corporal darling?”

“Just want to watch you, Major baby.” Maxwell gasped, shivering as Charles tugged at the lace underthings that matched his negligee, Charles looping a finger into the fine fabric to pulls aside so that he could press his neck to the hardened length of Maxwell’s cock.

This was something he remembered being rubbish at, but Maxwell moaned and shivered and reacted with such eager abandon that Charles knew he must be doing something right. Dark fingers tangled in the olive drab blanket, and Charles watched them twitch and tighten, listened to Maxwell’s moans, low and throaty, turn gasping whenever Charles did something right with his tongue or lips. 

Charles pulled back, reaching up to rest his fingers upon Maxwell’s mouth. “Suck.” He ordered, and Maxwell’s mouth fell open, letting Charles run his fingers over his tongue, pressing and moving, imitating what he planned to do to Maxwell in moments time. Maxwell’s calloused fingers released the bedding, and one hand reached up to grasp at Charles’ wrist, stroking over the smooth skin there. Charles froze at the sight of the young man bobbing his head, feeling how he teased his tongue over the doctor’s fingers, Maxwell’s eyes lidded as he worked his mouth over Charles’ fingers.

When Charles ripped his fingers away, Maxwell gasped, his lips causing an audible pop at the movement. “What’s wrong, Charles?”

“If you kept that up we’d never finish.” Charles murmured, guiding his hand to between Maxwell’s legs. “Breathe.” He ordered, guiding Maxwell’s thin legs over his shoulders. 

“Just… It won’t hurt, right?” Maxwell asked, staring at Charles.

“Maxwell, if something is illegal for no good reason, often times it is because it feels good.”

Maxwell shivered and bit his lip, looking up at the man. “Promise?”

“Yes.” Charles smiled, kissing the younger man gently. “Breathe.”

Maxwell drew in a deep, shaky breath, and on the exhale it lilted into a soft “oh” when Charles’ fingers entered him, slow and careful. “O-oh, Major…” He whispered, whimpering at the drag of Charles’ fingers inside him, the man thrusting them slowly, curling slowly with each movement. “Major!”

“There it is.” Charles purred, kissing Maxwell’s leg, biting softly at his thigh as he moved his fingers, faster, deeper, turning Maxwell’s breaths into frantic panting as he clawed at Charles’ shoulders, rumpling his tee shirt, leaving aching lines of sensation across Charles’ back. “That’s it, darling, that’s it.”

“More!” Maxwell managed, choking on the word as one leg trembled and curled tight over Charles’ back, gasping and whining until a low moan clawed it’s way from his chest. “Oh, _fuck_ , Charles…” His head dropped back on the bed and Charles watched his hips thrust, his free hand moving to stroke Maxwell’s length in time with the fingers thrusting inside him.

When it was clear that Maxwell was right on the edge, trembling and whimpering and begging as much as he could between desperate noises, Charles pulled his fingers free. He spat on his hand, stroking the poor excuse for lubricant over his own cock. He didn’t bother removing Maxwell’s lace panties, pushing them aside just enough that he could see where he had managed to make Maxwell so pink and open for him, an almost perfect match for discarded satin.

“Breathe.”

Maxwell breathed, but it was a whine as Charles’ cock pressed to him, struggling to get the tip inside even as Maxwell begged and arched against Charles. Charles could feel sweat soaking through his back as he grasped at Maxwell’s waist with one hand, pinning him down, his other hand gripping the shaft of his own cock. 

“Breathe, darling.” Another hard push and Charles groaned, his eyes fluttering at the feeling of tight heat.

“Charles!” Maxwell gasped at the sudden fullness, his entire body wire tense before he moaned, low and hungry. “Move, move, please, please.”

And who was he to disobey such a sweet order?

It was embarrassingly quick, for both of them, Charles due to lack of recent practice, Maxwell due to lack of practical experience. Charles pulled Maxwell close, pressing his broad body against Maxwell’s slighter frame, feeling Maxwell’s fingers tangled in his hair with one hand and shirt with the other. They kissed as they both moaned and panted through their orgasms, Maxwell lazily biting at Charles’ lower lip, letting out a giddy laugh.

“Maxwell?”

“I just…” Maxwell laughed softly. “Does this mean I can’t wear white at our wedding?”

“I will not tell if you do not.” Charles smiled, kissing at Maxwell’s lips, relief bleeding into his body as he relaxed and cradled Maxwell close.

“Charles?” Maxwell whispered, looking up at the man. 

“Yes, Maxwell?”

“I was… It was good?”

“You were perfect.” Charles whispered, kissing Maxwell again. “Here, let me prove it to you.”


	20. Dr. Winchester and Mr. Hyde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles struggles to keep up with the younger surgeons, and swallows a small handful of little round mistakes.

“Major, do you have the white count results?” Maxwell asked, entering the sorry excuse for a laboratory in his pink and red patterned tea dress, his white heels clicking on the floor as he approached. 

“Corporal, I’m going as fast as I can.” Charles rubbed his eyes, breathing deeply to try and stop his vision from swimming. He had started over this current white count over no less than three times so far. Two weeks of non-stop casualties. Eighteen hour shifts in surgery, followed by another six hour shift in post-op, interspersed only with enough sleep and food that he could survive to see the next day without his hands shaking had made him slow. Well… Slower than usual. He often took great pride in his fastidiousness, but working at the 4077th had taught him that shortcuts were necessary evils, but even then, he often felt as if he lagged behind Pierce and McIntyre, sometimes even Burns though the man was far more clumsy and careless with his speed.

“Eugh,” Maxwell sat down next to Charles, weariness written in every line of his face. Charles could even see that he had placed concealer under his eyes to hide the dark bruising that lack of sleep caused. “I’m exhausted. Hauling litters, stocking O.R., Major Houlihan is getting on my back to help with nursing more, so I get post-op duties too, and now I have K.P. coming up.”

“Aw, my poor darling.” Charles cupped the man’s jaw, kissing Maxwell gently on the lips. The younger man relaxed, sighing happily into the kiss before he pulled back and nuzzled into Charles’ shoulder, resting his head lightly on the white lab coat.

“I’ll probably fall asleep on the pudding and die of a concussion.” Maxwell lamented, letting out a loud yawn that Charles echoed.

“Don’t even _mention_ -” The yawn seemed to pass in a feedback loop between them for a moment. “Sleep, Maxwell.”

Maxwell sighed, his head resting on Charles’ shoulder as he let his eyes scan the large cabinet, the instruments, test tubes and beakers. “Hey, Major,” He gestured idly with a perfectly manicured hand. “With all these pills and serums lyin’ around, you got anything that could juice me up a little? You know, bring me back to the living?”

“Well, there is something.” Charles frowned, lifting Maxwell’s head off his shoulder. He reached over to the nearby drug cabinet, unlocking it with a small key, before he pulled out an innocuous brown bottle. 

Maxwell grinned broadly, “May your harem never be stricken with stretch marks.”

“Maxwell, you _are_ my one man harem.” Charles’ lips curled in amusement as he looked at the younger man, who batted his lashes at Charles.

“Exactly.”

Charles rattled the bottle, “Maxwell, these are amphetamines, or dexies, sometimes referred to as bennies.” He looked at the bottle. “Ingesting two of these pills is like swallowing a 50 horsepower engine. You’d be so alert your other four senses would catch up with your perfect nose.” Charles gave Maxwell a kiss on said nose, smiling at him. 

Maxwell reached over the counter, trying to snatch the pills from Charles’ grip. “Don’t wrap ‘em, I’ll eat ‘em here.”

Capturing Maxwell’s waist with his arm, Charles perched the slender frame on his lap, making Maxwell flush prettily in his grip, keeping the bottle out of Maxwell’s reach easily with his free arm. “These pills can make you feel so good you wouldn’t even mind being in the army.”

“Right, right.” Maxwell’s dark eyes lit up even more as they greedily watched the bottle move a few more inches away.

Charles pushed the bottle as far away as he could, wrapping his other arm around Maxwell’s waist, “And I’m not going to give you any.”

“Right - wait what? _Charles_!” Maxwell whined, kicking his legs in the air ineffectively. “I’m _exhausted_.”

Charles gave the younger man a stern look, holding him close. “Do you want extreme depression? Chronic fatigue?”

“I already got those!” Maxwell looked entirely frustrated as he glared at Charles, glancing at the bottle that had been put so far out of his reach that he’d have to try and fight against the Major’s restraining grip to get it.

“Worse, what about dependence on the drug itself?” Charles shook his head. “Any drug like this must be dispensed by a qualified physician.”

“Oh really, Dr. _Harvard_?” Maxwell draped his arms over Charles’ shoulders, trying a different tactic as he leaned in, brushing his lips over the other man’s teasingly.

Charles accepted the kiss. “No, I would consider that a conflict of interest to prescribe my betrothed any drug more powerful than an Aspirin.” And managed to resist the Corporal’s ploy.

Maxwell gave a swat to the man’s shoulder, glaring at him. “Fine, then I’ll go to one of the Captains.”

“No, Maxwell, this is for your own good.” Charles said, looking at Maxwell, who pouted and glared and huffed, trying to squirm out of his grip. “These drugs are serious, and they are not to be trifled with. Pierce and McIntyre will tell you the exact same thing.”

“Fine, I’ll stick to chewing garlic.” Maxwell slid out of Charles’ grip, adjusting his dress and stomping a heeled shoe on the ground. “ _Raw_ garlic.” He added before he turned and strutted out of the laboratory.

Charles felt somewhat bad, getting Maxwell’s hopes up, but it was for the young man’s own good. Turning back to the slide he was examining he couldn’t hold back another yawn.

“Damnit…” He whispered, rubbing his eyes before he tried to focus through the lens of the microscope. He paused, stopping his count for the fifth time, and looked over at that innocent enough little brown bottle filled with little white pills. He sighed, reaching out to take it and put it away, only to hesitate when he placed it on the shelf. Snatching it from the shelf once more, he opened it, took two pills, swallowed them, then placed the bottle back.

* * *

Charles had never felt so _good_. Even without sleep, with post-op duty with Major Houlihan, only just relieved at six in the blessed morning, Charles felt as if every breath was as invigorating as a walk on the beach at Beacon Hill.

He couldn’t stop himself from reciting as he approached the table where Colonel Blake and Father Mulcahy were seated, his coffee cup in hand. “Can anything compare to morning’s first light? The promise of beginning so new and so bright.” He sat down, chest puffed in pride and smiled at the two men. “From the moment I awake, till my first cornflake, I tingle at Aurora’s delight.”

“Wow, that’s sure some swell stuff, who wrote it?” Blake asked with a grin, obviously happy that one of his more surly surgeons was in a better mood.

Charles smiled smugly as he sipped at his coffee. “Charles Emerson Winchester III, while still an undergrad at Harvard.”

“It sounded very… collegiate.” Mulcahy said, smiling politely at Charles. Despite never quite getting on with the Catholic priest, Charles couldn’t help but be grateful for the man’s unwavering politeness and acceptance, it made him much more amenable to the man, especially since Maxwell enjoyed his services and conversation.

 _Speaking of the devil…_ Charles’ head turned immediately at the sound of Maxwell’s heels clicking on the floor. He was dressed in a tweed pencil skirt and a white ruffled blouse, smiling fondly at Charles, their previous day’s argument over the amphetamines forgiven and forgotten. “Hello, Corporal my mistress of the dawn.”

Maxwell rolled his eyes, but smiled nonetheless as he sat beside Charles, leaning over to steal Charles’ mug of coffee. “Still surviving only on coffee, Major baby?”

“No time for anything else,” Charles smiled and rested his hand on Maxwell’s thigh, feeling a thrill rush through him as he rubbed over the tweed lightly, sliding his fingers to the gap between Maxwell’s knees as he continued his conversation. “Later this morning I intend to pull together my notes and finally write that article for the A.M.A. journal entitled, “Korea, the Surgeon’s Buffet”.”

“Well, uh, as long as it rhymes.” Blake laughed, awkward and with a look that Charles couldn’t quite place.

* * *

Charles sat in Maxwell’s tent, writing at a breakneck speed on what had once been a blank pad of paper. He now had fifteen pages of his article written out in the last hour, waiting for Maxwell to finish his shift helping out in post-op. He had cleaned up Maxwell’s tent, planted a row of wildflowers in front of the tent, and had placed no less than three calls to Honoria in Boston with requests for certain fabrics and items and records that he couldn’t get in Tokyo. She had asked him if he was alright, but Charles had waved off her quiet concern. He had never felt so good since before he arrived in Tokyo.

The door to the tent opened and Charles turned, his eyes fixing on Maxwell, who smiled at him curiously. “To what do I owe this visit, Major?”

“Pierce and McIntyre are too distracting,” Charles said. “Give me two shakes of a lamb’s tail, I’ll be finished with this thought in a moment.” He turned back to the makeshift desk he had made at Maxwell’s vanity, gently placing makeup and perfume jars and bottles aside for his notepad. 

He could hear Maxwell walking around the tent, a quiet distraction that drew his attention away from his work. He had written the same section of sentence three times by the time Maxwell reached over Charles’ shoulder to grasp a perfume bottle, spritzing himself before he leaned back over to replace the bottle on the vanity. “Whenever you’re ready, Major baby.” Maxwell whispered, kissing Charles’ neck and jaw gently, his warm hands sliding over the man’s chest, his shoulders, dragging his nails lightly over his fatigues. 

Charles couldn’t resist any longer, turning to look at Maxwell. The young man was wearing his blue silk dressing gown, wearing nothing but a pair of white lace and silk underwear and a pair of blue heels with little white puffs of fur on the toes. 

“Those are new.”

“Special order. They came in today.” Maxwell posed on the edge of his bed, crossing his long, dark legs and smiling up at Charles. “Go on, finish your article. Don’t let me distract you.”

Charles growled, low and animalistic and so unlike himself, as he lunged away from the vanity, upending the chair he had been using. Maxwell let out a laugh and a delighted noise that quickly turned to a moan. Charles panted into Maxwell’s neck, feeling himself burning up as he grabbed at Maxwell’s thighs, his hips, pushing the young man’s underwear down to his knees so that his hand could fit between those perfect lean thighs.

He was burning up, but as Maxwell slid his hands down to Charles’ chest, stomach, towards his groin, a rather mortifying realization started to take hold.

Charles had spent a year in the presence of one Maxwell Q. Klinger and had spent a collective six months of that year sporting an erection at anything as innocent at the sight of Maxwell’s ankles or the brief suggestion of his perfume on the wind. Yet here he was, blood rushing through everything except the one place that he desperately needed it to be.

He gripped Maxwell’s wrists, pinning them above his head with one broad palm. Maxwell gasped at that, shivering as he looked up at the man in confusion.

“Just lay there, lovely,” Charles growled, his Atlantic accent rolling over the man’s skin as Charles pressed his mouth to Maxwell’s neck, chest, stomach. “Let me look at you.”

Maxwell whimpered and squirmed, trying to free his wrists. “But I want to _touch_ you!”

“Darling, you are a delicacy that I am _starved_ for and I shall not be kept from my feast of the senses any longer.” Charles sucked a mark into Maxwell’s stomach, making the young man whine. 

“W-well… Who am I to stop you?” 

Charles licked a stripe along Maxwell’s stomach, down to his groin, and decided to worry about his problem later. For now, he could enjoy his lover in a myriad of other ways.

* * *

“Hello, Doc, where’s the other six dwarves?” Pierce asked as Charles walked in, whistling a peppy tune that he was sure he had heard somewhere, but could not pinpoint exactly where. 

“Ha!” Charles chuckled as he looked at Pierce, waving his notepad around, the pages fluttering in the air. “Amusing, even from you. Gentlemen, you see before you a brilliant, incisive paper for the A.M.A. that a mere two hours ago was a blank pad of paper.”

McIntyre asked, raising a brow at Charles as the man tossed the pad towards Pierce. “What’ll it be two hours from now?”

“Would you proofread that for me, Pierce?” Charles asked, grinning at Pierce eagerly, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as he stood in place.

“Sure, does spelling count?” Pierce asked, looking at the pad that had landed on his cot with concern. “Two hours, there’s twenty-seven pages here?”

“Yes, I pride myself on brevity.” Charles’ lips curled into a smug, pleased smile.

“It’s one long sentence... I’ll read it later.” Pierce squinted up at Charles, a slow smile spreading over his face. “You know what, it’s taken a long time, but I think that you’re finally beginning to fit into this place. Getting used to things.”

“Are you surprised?” Charles asked, picking up a towel on McIntyre’s bed, folding it quickly. Then another, unable to keep still.

“More like stunned, shocked.” Pierce said, leaning back. “Bewitched, bothered, bewildered. You are now coping with this nightmare better than I’ve ever seen you. Better than I’ve ever seen me, for that matter.” 

“Don’t forget, Gentlemen, that I am a Winchester.” Charles said, tilting his head to look down his nose at Pierce. He was sure that if he stopped folding laundry he might seem more intimidating, but his hands couldn’t stop moving. “All I have to do is set my mind to something and eventually, inevitably, I conquer it.”

“Well that certainly explains Corporal Klinger singing the Song of Solomon a few tents over.” Pierce grinned wolfishly.

Charles opened his mouth to retort, only to be cut off by the P.A. system crackling to life.

“Attention all personnel, the Chinese are at it again, incoming wounded it looks like a long one.”

Pierce and McIntyre stood, jogging towards the pre-op to scrub up, leaving Charles behind in the Swamp. He peered out the screen door of the Swamp, before he moved to his foot locker, kneeling to unlock it. He rummaged through the once-neat piles of possessions and collected the innocuous brown bottle of pills, tilting two into his palm, swallowing them easily without any water, before he closed the trunk, locked it, and left.

* * *

“Those are the tiniest and neatest stitches I’ve ever seen, Major.” Maxwell smiled up at him as he peeled off Charles’ gloves and replaced them with a new set. “And I know stitches.”

“You’re not assisting a blacksmith, Corporal darling.” Charles spoke quickly, unable to slow himself as he flexed his fingers and grinned broadly behind his mask. “I could stitch a fly’s wing back to its body.”

“But what fly could afford you?” Pierce asked, rolling his eyes as Charles paced around the tables, quickly looking at each table as he moved around, never stopping. “Klinger, chain him to his table.”

“Even if I could catch him, what chain could hold him?” Maxwell asked with a laugh that ended in a wide yawn, blessedly hidden by his mask.

Charles paused at Burns’ table, peering into the gut wound. “Oh, missed a piece of shrapnel there, Burns, may I-”

“Colonel!” Burns whined, like a child angry that a sibling wanted to play with his toys.

“Winchester, take a break, you’ve more than earned one.” Blake said, looking over at the only assistant that Charles hadn’t driven off with his insufferable jittery movements. “Take Klinger with you, he looks dead on his feet.”

“Sorry, Colonel, I should have worn a lower heel.” Maxwell said, giving a weary salute at the Colonel before peeling off his own gloves and gown.

Charles’ breath couldn’t still and his heart pounded in his ears as he stared at Maxwell peeling himself out of the gown, beanie, mask, and gloves before helping Charles with his own clothing. 

“You do wicked things to me, Maxwell,” Charles growled into the young man’s hair, and Maxwell shivered, grinning up at the man. 

“Down, Major, let’s at least get to my tent.”

“Too far, come to the Swamp.” Charles whispered, pressed to Maxwell’s back like he wanted to mold the smaller man into his own body, his lips pressed to Maxwell’s neck, kissing and biting, not caring that anyone could come walk in on them.

Maxwell gasped softly, letting out a low moan before he nodded frantically. “Okay, okay, the Swamp it is.”

Burns’ bed was the one closest to the door, and while Charles could stand the brief walk to the Swamp’s door, he couldn’t stand one step more. He bent Maxwell over the bed, pushing his white nurse’s uniform up his thighs, bunching the skirt of it around his waist. He was still unable to release the fever in the usual means, but pressing his hips against Maxwell’s ass, he reached down with his free hand to fist Maxwell’s cock, eager and hard and fast. 

“S-sir!” Maxwell moaned, gasping and shivering as he pressed his face to Major Burns’ bed, whimpering and moaning, his legs shaking like they might give out beneath him. He got Maxwell just hard enough that he was dripping onto the perfectly made cot before he knelt behind Maxwell, spreading him on his fingers, staring at the way he opened up so eagerly and beautifully for him. “Oh, _fuck_ , Charles, yes, fuck, please.” 

“Maxwell,” Charles growled, biting at the young man’s thigh as his fingers moved more insistently, finding the sweet spot that he had mapped enthusiastically over countless hours. “Come for me, Maxwell.”

If anyone heard Maxwell’s eager, sobbing moans, desperately mumbling Charles’ name, they ignored it and went about their business.

* * *

Charles was in the middle of the mess tent when he crashed. He had been pouring himself is sixth cup of coffee for the day, waiting impatiently for Maxwell to get off of his O.R. shift, supervised by Major Houlihan as he assisted Colonel Blake. It was a true test of his newly acquired skills as a nurse and Charles was proud, but impatient to hear the results, already planning to be in Blake’s office the moment the surgery was finished. He didn’t even realize he was falling at first, his eyes blinking rapidly as he lay on the floor of the mess tent, staring up into the wide, concerned eyes of Pierce and McIntyre.

“Come on, Charles, come on, let’s get you to the Swamp.”

He wasn’t sure about what was going on, where he was going. Everything swam in and out of coherency, his vision blacking out every so often. He could hear his tent-mates talking, but the words were mumbled and twisted around. They might as well be speaking in Chinese for all Charles knew, swimming helplessly in darkness, trying to find his way back to consciousness after a week of no sleep while he had taken the amphetamines.

He woke at the sound of another familiar voice. Maxwell’s concerned tone dragging him into consciousness, his eyes blinking open. He tilted his head, lolling and trying to find the source of his lover’s voice. 

“Haven’t invented a lock I can’t pick.” Maxwell said as he popped open the lock on Charles’ steamer trunk.

“What are you doing?” He mumbled, trying to sit up, only for his head to feel like a fifty pound weight that couldn’t be moved.

“Don’t worry about it, Chuckles, just a spot inspection.” McIntyre said, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder to push him back down onto his cot.

Pierce sighed, going through the rummaged through trunk. “What a mess.”

“Now I know there’s something wrong,” Maxwell frowned, reaching over to stroke his hand over Charles’ jaw, gentle and soothing, his calloused palms cool against Charles’ sweat-soaked skin.

“Ah, ha.” Pierce held up the bottle, and Maxwell looked at Charles with wide eyes.

“The amphetamines?” He stroked his fingers over Charles’ face, taking in the man’s wild-eyed look and Charles couldn’t help the hot burn of shame coursing through his veins.

“Give me that!” He snatched the bottle away from Pierce, placing it aside on his desk.

“When did you start taking those?” Pierce asked, scowling at the other doctor as Charles avoided his gaze like it might kill him to look at the man.

“I think I might know, sirs.” Maxwell wrung his fingers, still seated beside Charles on the bed, he looked guiltily up at McIntyre and Pierce, as if Charles’ own weakness was directly his fault. “I asked the Major for something to pick me up a few days ago, he told me that it wouldn’t be any good, that the risks were too great.” He looks worried, not angry. 

Charles sniffled, breathing deeply, “I’m going to report this invasion of privacy, Pierce, McIntyre.”

“It’s why we got Maxwell to open the box, you won’t report him.” Pierce said, sounding entirely unimpressed.

McIntyre snorted as he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest as he stared at Charles. “Besides, you really going to tell the Colonel that we stole your dope?” 

“Look, gentlemen, I was feeling run down! Those helped to pick me up and I’m administering them myself,” Charles cleared his throat, feeling shameful even as he said it. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh do you? Do you really?” Pierce scowled, jostling Charles’ cot. “Lemme tell you something, Doctor, the patient you placed under your care is falling to pieces.”

“If Klinger was having this sort of reaction would you just let the treatment continue?” McIntyre pointed out, making Charles’ heart jump at the idea of Maxwell suffering the same symptoms he was experiencing in full force.

“Your blood pressure is way up, your heart is palpitating, your hands are shaking.” Pierce sighed as he stared at Charles. “All signs of a man falling apart.”

“I just took them to keep up!” Charles snapped, biting his cheek when he realized that he had blurted out a secret. The doctors went quiet and Maxwell’s fingers moved to gather Charles’ hand in his own, stroking over the man’s long fingers soothingly. 

“Go on.” Maxwell coaxed gently, staring at Charles with warm, understanding eyes that Charles couldn’t help but trust, confide in.

“I… I’m the oldest surgeon here, other than Henry Blake. I… I can’t work the hours that I used to. Every day for the last three weeks I’ve felt like… Like I couldn’t keep up.” He let out a wretched sob, rubbing at his face as he sat upright, managed to get his legs under him. He stumbled for a moment, but turned towards the door to the tent, Maxwell grasping his arm firmly. “I’ve never been so ashamed in my life.”

“Where are you going?” Pierce asked, concerned.

“Throw up.” Was all Charles could manage, stumbling towards the latrine before anyone could question him further.

It was two hours of vomiting, sweats, shakes, and Charles feeling as if he might die of a heart attack before Maxwell was able to maneuver Charles into his tent, surrounded by soft fabrics that Charles would feel absolutely miserable about vomiting on. Maxwell undressed him down to his boxers, Charles preventing the younger man from seeing him entirely bare in such a state. Maxwell gathered a rag and the wash basin, heating water on his stove before he began to wash Charles’ sweat-slicked body.

“You must hate me.” Charles murmured, breathing raggedly as his heart pounded and his eyes watered with fresh tears. 

Maxwell didn’t stop his gentle care, having gotten plenty of practice with unruly patients in his corpsman and nursing duties. “Honestly, Major, if this is what you were saving me from, I thank you.” Maxwell kissed his cheek gently, coaxing him to lay back on the bed. “Come on, lay down, you can sleep here tonight.

Charles shook his head, trying to resist even as Maxwell managed to push him down. “I’ll be going into withdrawl soon, Maxwell, I have no wish for you to see me in such a state.”

“I’ll help you through it.” Maxwell whispered, kissing his jaw gently. “In sickness and in health, right? Well I might as well start on that vow now.”


	21. O.R.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snapshots from a 38 hour day in the O.R..

“Hot food, cold food, movies. It’s so unprofessional in here. I protest all these distractions!” Burns snarled as he threw a sponge at the unfortunate nurse that had been assigned to him. Charles couldn’t help but be grateful that Burns had shouted that Maxwell was to never work at the same table as him, no doubt believing that transvestism, homosexuality, and Maxwell’s general Toledo-ness would rub off on him.

“Hear hear! Mostly I protest the wearing of falsies in the O.R., I wish you’d cut it out, Klinger, you’re driving me crazy.” Pierce called from his own table, smirking at Maxwell as the young man chuckled and held onto a retractor he was using to keep a soldier’s gut opened for Charles to work on.

“Steady, Pierce, is that any way to speak to my betrothed?” Winchester called, looking up. “Though I will say that I for once agree with Captain Pierce.”

Burns let out a scandalized noise, “Colonel, that is _obscene_!”

“Oh cut it out, Frank.” Blake sighed, rubbing at his eyes with his elbow. Charles chuckled to himself, gesturing for Maxwell to remove the retractor as he began to close.

“Well it’s not an easy job, taking out a man’s kidney with all this noise and those two _perverts_ in here!” Burns shouted, sweating and his voice rising an octave in embarrassment and stress.

Pierce looked up sharply at the mention of a kidney, and Charles glanced over his shoulder at Pierce, waiting for instruction from the Chief Surgeon. “… Chuckles, go help Major Burns.”

“Corporal darling, put a pressure dressing on this.” Charles ordered, turning to walk over to Burns’ table.

“Do we have xrays?” Charles asked, looking at the absolutely destroyed middle of the soldier under Burns’ scalpel. He was putting clamps, prepared to carve out the soldier’s kidney. 

“On the box, Major baby, Nurse Baker, could you?” Nurse Baker flicked on the light box so that Charles could see the xray clearly. When Charles turned to look at the imaging he froze, then turned sharply back to speak to Burns. 

“This kidney is none of your business!” Burns snapped, glaring at Charles before the man could say anything. “I don’t come to your table and mess with your organs!”

“Major Burns, look at the xray, this soldier only has one kidney.” Charles snapped back, his fingers tempted to reach out and strangle Burns, but that would make him no longer sterile.

“Only one?” Burns started to laugh, then looked at the xray. “H-he was so messed up… I didn’t know they’d done xrays… I could have killed him.”

“Steady, Major Burns, steady.” Charles said as he went back to his table, looking at the pressure dressing that Maxwell was putting the finishing touch on. “Beautiful work, Maxwell.”

* * *

“Winchester… I want to thank you for helping out on that kidney.”

Charles breathed and stared at Burns as he drank his orange juice. It was going on hour twelve now, and Charles wanted to just collapse into a hotel room in Tokyo, with clean sheets, Maxwell dressed in absolutely nothing at all, rather than leaning against Charles’ shoulder, passed out briefly from exhaustion. In this fantasy Burns was not sitting across from him, wide-eyed and desperate for approval.

“I just… I’m very tired.” Burns whispered, shrinking under Charles’ piercing blue gaze.

“We’re all tired, Major Burns.” Charles said, taking another long drink from his glass of orange juice. Maxwell sighed and cuddled closer to Charles’ shoulder, his nose pressed to the collar of the man’s scrubs. “But that doesn’t mean that we all get sloppy with our work.”

Burns bristled slightly at that, and Charles wondered how on earth he had the energy to fight. “Where do you get off, acting like you’re better than me?”

“Because, quite simply, I am. If you hadn’t become a doctor you could have made a fine business as a local butcher. Your bedside manner is cruel and even your attempt at reassuring platitudes are so clearly fake.” Charles leaned his head against the wall, Maxwell cuddling up against his chest even more, practically crawling into Charles’ lap in his sleep. The sight very clearly bothered Frank, the man’s lip twitching at the sight. “You’re a mean-spirited, joyless, bigot of a man and quite honestly even my own flaws stack up better against all of yours.”

Burns’ expression fell and he looked down at his mask, wrung between his fingers. “But… We never got along. McIntyre and Pierce and I got along for the first few weeks, at least.”

“Perhaps they realized how much of a waste of time and effort those three weeks were trying to get along with you.” Charles sighed and closed his eyes. “You truly astound me, Major Burns.”

“I do?” Burns asked, sounding surprised.

“You insult me, degrade me, spread my personal business all across the camp, threaten to ruin my life, and yet you still come back here, behaving as if _you_ are the injured party.” Charles opens his eyes slightly. “How would you feel if I wrote your wife about your affair with Major Houlihan? Or took the opportunity to degrade you for being a _Baptist_ of all things. I insult you often enough, but not in your personal matters, merely in your surgical skills, which you and I both know are not nearly on par with any other surgeon here.”

“All I’m asking is for you to give me a little respect.” Burns said, as if that might be an easy thing to grant.

“Only as much as you give me, Major Burns.” Charles said, his eyes closing as he listened to the door to the small hallway between O.R. and post-op swing open and O’Reilly’s frantic steps approach.

Charles cracked his eye open just enough to see O’Reilly shaking Maxwell gently awake. “Klinger, we need blood, you got B-neg.”

“Blood,” Maxwell yawned, stumbling to his feet before he stretched his arms out, like bat wings or if he was wearing his usual red and blue cape. “I must give blood.”

* * *

“Major Freedman, good to see you, scrub up, you’ll be working with Major Winchester.” Blake didn’t let Freedman say anything, simply tossed him into the thick of the O.R..

“Medical school was a long time ago,” Major Freedman said, and for once Charles couldn’t object to the man. Any extra pairs of hands were blessing enough, and at least Freedman had enough basics that he could remember.

“Good, you’ll be just as good as Major Burns, better, even, since you don’t have bad habits to unlearn.” Charles said simply.

“Major Freedman, the psychiatrist!” Maxwell smiled as he came back from his blood donation, freshly scrubbed up, he pulled his mask down and smiled broadly at Freedman. “Remember me?”

“Remember you, I had to buy a new cabinet for your file.” Freedman smiled behind his own mask, clearly fond of Maxwell. It was enough to make Charles forget some of his wariness towards psychiatrists, but not entirely.

“Corporal, assist Major Freedman in getting properly scrubbed.” Charles chuckled to himself. “Perhaps you can even clean up his mind a bit.”

“Good luck on that, Klinger, my mind has been dirty since I was fourteen,” Major Freedman laughed slightly, following Maxwell to the scrub room.

It was a long process, but when Maxwell and Major Freedman returned, they were beside Charles’ table as a fresh new patient arrived. “Nurse Anderson, help Major Burns, he could use a pair of true Doctor’s hands.” Charles said, dismissing his current help with a nod before he looked at the patient’s pulse. “Pulse good, pressure seems good, this should be fairly simple.”

It should have been, but the moment Charles started to feel around the young man’s intestines, searching for the last elusive bit of shrapnel, the nurse playing the role of anesthesiologist spoke up sharply. “I’ve lost his pulse.”

“What? That can’t be.” Charles frowned. “He was fine.”

“No, it’s gone.”

“Maxwell, rib spreader!”

Maxwell quickly obeyed, darting to the row of sterilized tools that were not used as frequently, grabbing up a rib spreader before he came back. 

“You done this before, Major Winchester?” Freedman asked, sounding concerned. 

“Yes,” Charles said simply. “On Corporal Klinger.”

“This bodes well then.”

Charles nodded as he used the rather cruel looking device to spread the boy’s ribs, sweating as he worked his large hand into the boy’s chest. His own heart was pounding in his ears. This was only the second time he had done this, and the pressure of it made his breaths shallow as he worked. 

Nothing changed. The boy’s heart did not start to beat, not like Maxwell’s had when Charles had him open on the table.

“Nothing, Doctor.”

Charles slowly pulled his hands out at the seven minute mark. The boy’s brain tissues were dead now anyway without more blood. He removed the gloves and turned away from the table. “Bring me the next patient, corpsman.” He ordered Private Straminsky, who nodded and collected the litter along with another corpsman. 

“You okay, Major Winchester?” Freedman asked gently, his voice painfully soft and inviting Charles to speak his own personal agony. 

“I’m fine,” Charles said quietly. “Young men die in war.”

Major Freedman nodded, “I’m not ready to fly solo yet, Winchester.”

“Corporal, gloves,” Charles said softly, and Maxwell slid the new gloves onto his hands easily, his own fingers brushing over Charles’ wrists through the rubber over both of their hands.

Charles breathed deeply, clearing his throat as he turned to the new patient on his table. “I thought I had him. That I could save him.”

“Some patients insist on dying, Charles,” Major Freedman said simply as he watched Charles pick up a scalpel and prepare to cut into the new patient. “You knew that going in, but you had to be a doctor.”

“I never had a choice,” Charles said softly, trying to keep his voice low enough that the rest of the room couldn’t eavesdrop. “My parents wouldn’t stand for their only living son to be a disappointment.” Even as he began his work focusing on the familiar task of digging shrapnel out of soft tissues, he could hear the conversation dip, everyone listening in as best as they could, or perhaps that was his own paranoia. “At least if I was a doctor I could learn what was so wrong with me that they needed to fix it. When that didn’t work, I focused on becoming the best surgeon that I could, maybe I could fix the people who came to me for surgery.” Charles breathed deeply and shook his head, “Could I trouble you to trade jobs with Corporal Klinger, Major Freedman.”

“Good idea,” Freedman stepped back, shucking his gloves and mask the moment he was at a safe distance. “Couples therapy.”

Maxwell smiled through his mask. “I got you, Major,” He said simply, his warm brown eyes fixed on Charles’ own face. “And you got this.”

Charles’ fingers, tempted to tremble with emotions too great and overwhelming for him, steadied and their surety returned. He was a better man because of Maxwell, a better surgeon still with the younger man’s sheer belief in him. 

All surgeons have a god complex, Charles remembered hearing once, and his own was kept healthy on a diet of Maxwell’s adoring, worshiping gaze.


	22. Springtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Spring is the perfect time for talks of marriage.

“Did the army really requisition us a genuine spring day?”

“It would seem so, Major.”

“Just breathe in that fresh air. It brings back memories of Boston in the Spring, gracious manners, fine dining, paved roads.” Maxwell laughed as they walked through the compound, watching as Charles stretched his arms over his head, turning to look down at Maxwell. “Prepare yourself, Maxwell. Your nicest frock and hat, and I will take you on a genuine picnic.”

“Really, Major?”

“Right outside the minefield, my darling.”

Maxwell laughed, gave Charles a brief nudge of his shoulder, they still were not quite up to kissing in public, not when half the camp still considered them deviants. They parted ways and Charles sighed happily as he opened his steamer trunk, carefully organized and neatly packed, before he pulled out a white cotton shirt buried at the bottom of the trunk. He found a pair of civilian trousers as well, and after a few more minutes of digging produced a knitted navy blue sweater vest. 

“Got a date, Charles?” McIntyre asked, grinning as he watched the other man strip out of his shirt, leaving him in only his undershirt to shave. 

“Unlike your dalliances, my date prefers real clothing, not fatigues.”

“Can’t account for taste.” Pierce smirked as he watched Charles perform his usual meticulous shave. “So what’s it gonna be? A tip toe through the minefield? A hunt for seashells and kidney stones by the cess pool?”

“Gonna go play a little Doctor?” McIntyre grinned.

“A picnic at an undisclosed location.” Charles said simply as he patted his aftershave onto his face, then began to get dressed.

“We’ve dropped “romantic” and moved on to “undisclosed”.”

“Romantic was never an option here. Perhaps in Tokyo, maybe even Seoul in a pinch, but not _here_.” Charles went through his trunk and collected various tins and such into his military-issue satchel. He tossed a jar of Spanish olivada to Pierce and McIntyre. “To go with your martinis and to keep you two from spying on me while I am on my date.”

“We salute you, Chuckles,” Pierce said as he held the jar close to his heart. 

“Oh, Major?” Maxwell’s voice called and he threw open the door. He had a lilac sunhat, which matched the white and purple antebellum style gown that the man was wearing. “Come on, oh one of the Atlantic features.”

Charles smiled, hooking his arm with Maxwell’s and carrying his satchel over his shoulder. 

“Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do,” Pierce called, ignored by the couple as they walked through the compound, earning curious gazes as they went. 

They must have made quite the sight in the middle of a war, surrounded by khaki and olive drab and mud, dressed in white. They’d struggle to get any stains out, but it would be worth it to have one lovely spring day where they could imagine they were back in the States. 

It was an idle walk towards a broad field of overgrown grass, sparse trees lining the area, offering some shade midst the soft green of the grass. Maxwell sat down in the shade of a broad cedar tree, the scent of the wood and leaves making Charles smile as he followed Maxwell into the dappled shade of the tree. It was picturesque here, at the top of a small hill, overlooking the natural beauty of Korea, the wind blowing just right so that the smell of the 4077th was to their back and all they could breathe in was fresh spring air.

"I think that I would want to be married in the spring," Maxwell said, breaking the comfortable, enjoyable silence between them. Charles hummed, looking down at Maxwell, who was looking out at the scenery before them, a landscape worthy of being painted. "Miss Gawrecki, she was my elementary teacher back in Toledo. She got married in the spring and she taught us this little rhyme about the good fortunes that different brides got when they got married at different times of the year."

"Oh?" Charles smiled at the charming concept of Maxwell staring up at his teacher, eyes wide as he listened rapturously to her reciting a little poem. "Tell me?"

"Lemme think, lemme think," Maxwell frowned. _"The springtime bride is starry eyed, as poets often say. No other bride would dare to dream the dreams that April May."_

"An apt description of you, Corporal darling." Charles smiled. "And a charming little poem."

“In that case, I got something I think you’ll like,” Maxwell said with a grin, producing a white book from the folds of his skirt where he had most likely sewn in pockets. “Rupert Brooke, won it in a poker game.” He passed the book to Charles, and the man smiled as he flipped through the pages. 

“I see there are some that you have already read.”

“I much prefer to hear you reading them.” Maxwell laughed, smiling as he moved to open Charles' satchel. “You read, I’ll play mother?”

“If you insist.”

And so he began to read, smiling as Maxwell fed him bites of food between poems and lines, the two of them close enough that no matter how they moved, there was always a point of contact between them, be it a hand on a knee or an elbow lightly pressed to a shoulder. Charles lounged, at one point, his head resting in Maxwell’s lap, dark fingers stroking over what was left of Charles’ hair, over his jaw an shoulder, Maxwell leaning back against the cedar tree, his breathing even and slow, relaxed.

 _“Love's for completeness! No perfection grows ‘twixt leg, and arm, elbow, and ear, and nose, and joint, and socket;”_ Charles read, his voice strong and clear as he spoke, feeling Maxwell’s hands still and rest upon his shoulders, relaxed and languid and pleased. _“Sprawling desires, shapeless, perverse, denied. Finger with finger wreathes; we love, and gape, fantastic shape to mazed fantastic shape.”_ It was a perfect moment, golden and warm and bright in the early afternoon, nothing could ruin it. _“Straggling, irregular, perplexed, embossed, grotesquely twined, extravagantly lost by crescive paths and strange protuberant ways from sanity and from wholeness and from grace.”_

“Can’t you two go be disgusting somewhere else?” Burns’ voice broke through their little world, like a snowglobe suddenly making contact with the ground. 

Charles sighed and rolled onto his side, resting upon his elbow as he scowled at Burns and Houlihan. Maxwell was faster than him, though, and called out, “Big words coming from someone who just got a letter from his wife this morning, Major.”

Houlihan startled and glared at Burns, giving his shoulder a smack, “You didn’t _tell_ me!”

“Well, Margaret, it just wasn’t that important!”

Maxwell scoffed, smirking at the two squabbling Majors, and Charles smirked as he sat up, shifting so that he was seated beside Maxwell, his back resting against the cedar’s broad trunk as well. It didn’t take long for Houlihan to stand, storming off with Burns trailing after her, simpering and desperate to calm her rage. 

“Shame on you, Maxwell.”

“It’s what she gets for going with a married man,” Maxwell shrugged. “And what he gets for being a married man having an affair.”

“I take it you have very strong views of such things?”

“Look, Trapper might be a married man, but he doesn’t promise the nurses here anything once he goes back. Major Houlihan thinks that Major Burns is going to leave his wife’s money for her after the war. Between the two married men, Trapper at least has the decency to not pretend like he’s a self-righteous stick in the mud.”

Charles gently wrapped an arm around Maxwell, drawing him close. “What you and I will have, in Boston… It won’t be the same as a real marriage.” He couldn’t say it more plainly than that. “I have written my lawyers and they are to make the arrangements that in the event of my death that you are the sole heir of the bulk of my estate. There will be a sum given to my sister, a trust that should keep her comfortable through the rest of her life. I believe you would always have the kindness to care for my sister and not turn her away.”

“Of course,” Maxwell looked up at Charles, eyes wide. “I know how much she means to you. I’d never drive her off.”

“Any medical decisions in the event of my diminished capacity would be left up to you,” Charles said softly. “You also will be the beneficiary of any and all insurance I have. Bonds, stocks, everything goes to you.”

Maxwell’s eyes misted briefly with tears at the thought of Charles being gone, leaving him alone, and Charles leaned down to kiss away such worries and thoughts. “You know, less scrupulous gals would arrange for your untimely demise after hearing that, Major.”

Charles’ lips curled into a smile and he pressed another silencing kiss to the younger man’s lips. “You’re a darling creature, Maxwell, and I plan to live a long, healthy life now that I have someone to live for.”

“Oh, hey, Klinger!” O’Reilly’s voice called over the field, and the two of them sighed, pulling back to something more chaste so as not to scandalize the Corporal.

“O’Reilly, you truly have a gift,” Charles said with a grumble.

“I know, I know,” The young man said, holding out a letter to Maxwell, the white envelope thick and soaked through with a cheap perfume that Charles recognized from months of observation. “Sometimes I can even know what people are thinking.”

“Really?” Charles glared at the young Corporal, his blue eyes fixed on him. “What am I thinking right now?”

“… I promised Father Mulcahy I wouldn’t use those words.” The young man scampered off and Charles sighed, turning his attention to Maxwell. 

“Darling?” He asked, watching as the young man dropped the letter into his lap, rubbing at his eyes lightly, trying to avoid smearing his mascara or liner. “Maxwell, what… What is wrong?”

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” Maxwell tried to gather up the letter, smoothing it out and attempting to stuff it back into the envelope. “Laverne wrote me.”

“I gathered that,” Charles said softly. “The perfume.”

Maxwell cleared his throat, letting out a weak laugh. “She… Um… She said she understands, about us, and about why I broke off the engagement.”

“But?” Charles gently prompted.

“Just… She’s my best friend. We ran scams together as kids, we had our own rackets with the fruit vendors. She was my lookout when I robbed convenience stores.” He gave a choked noise. “And she… She said she knew I was… What I am… That the dresses were more than just a dodge. That I wasn’t a real man.” He crinkled the letter between his fingers, trying to make it through the explanation. “Mentioned kids, how she always knew that I loved them but didn’t want any of my own, and she hoped that I’d be happy with you.” Tears threatened to ruin his mascara and Charles reached up to capture them on his thumb gently. “Then went on to say that she has taken up with Mority the sausage maker in my absence, a “real man”.”

Charles let Maxwell have a moment, several, with his thoughts, with his emotion. Before he gently took thin, calloused fingers in his own broad palm. “She sounds foolish, and petty. Perhaps she thinks that you were not honest with her, that our affair had begun long before you wrote her.”

“She knows me better than that,” Maxwell protested with a frown.

“She is a woman scorned, logic might not have anything to do with it.” Charles gently took the letter from Maxwell’s hands, placing it aside in the grass beside them. 

“I just… I thought she’d be happy for me.” Maxwell sighed, leaning into Charles’ arms, seeking comfort from the scent of his aftershave, his fingers running over the fine cotton and knit of his shirt and sweater, the textiles heralding to something far away from Korea. 

“Perhaps she will be. Perhaps she won’t,” Charles kissed Maxwell’s forehead, a gentle touch made to reassure the younger man. “That is her burden to bear, not anything to take on your own shoulders.”

* * *

The genuine spring day had turned to a genuine spring shower in the true fashion of Korean weather. Charles sat in Maxwell’s tent, the two of them sharing Charles’ cognac, kissing between sips. Maxwell’s powder blue housecoat and Charles’ navy blue robe were discarded over the back of Maxwell’s vanity chair, the two of them lounged upon the bed in their pajamas. 

“So you _really_ dated Audrey Hepburn?”

“Mhm,” Charles smiled drunkenly. “My parents’ most famous attempt to change my attractions.”

“Explains why you like me in the black,” Maxwell said with a grin. “You meet her from her movies?”

“No, actually,” Charles laughed softly. “I attended many ballets that she danced in, my parents took that as a sign that I was smitten with the poor girl.”

“Oh, she’s hardly a girl.”

“She is hardly a woman of my age.” Charles said simply, wryly. “She was barely eighteen when we were introduced, and I felt like a dirty old man the entire dinner.”

Maxwell straightened, grinning slowly at Charles. “Major baby… Do you not know how old I am?”

“It… Well… Ah, it never crossed my mind.” Charles blinked at Maxwell, surprised by the sudden gypsy grin on the young man’s face.

“Charles, I’m only nineteen. Twenty in two months.”

He was a _child_. Charles felt his face go pale even as embarrassment made his cheeks flush. He had seen Maxwell’s file, he had read about his check ups. But he had skimmed over his age, not seeing it as relevant to his previous searches for any and everything he could use to get the younger man sent back. If there had been a difference, he had thought that it was merely a few years. 

“Now it is my turn to worry that you might have second thoughts.” Charles said, his voice hoarse. 

“Why would I, Major?” Maxwell asked with a frown, staring at his lover quietly.

“Maxwell, I feel… I feel that you perhaps don’t realize that when I am an old man, in as short as thirty years, that you will be at the height of your life. You’ll be barely middle aged. All of my ancestors have not even lived to the age of eighty, that is…” Charles tried to do the calculations, but his mind whirled like a flock of upset birds. 

“It will be enough,” Maxwell said simply, stroking over Charles’ face.

“What about when I need care? How could I ask you to care for me in my age?”

Dark eyes set along with Maxwell’s jaw and he moved to straddle Charles’ lap, placing their glasses of cognac aside on the small crate turned on its side that acted as his nightstand. When he straightened and looked back at Charles there was a fierceness there that rarely showed through under the sunshine bright demeanor of the young man. “You said that everything would be like a marriage, right?” 

“Of course.”

“I want vows.” Maxwell said simply.

“Vows?”

“Yeah.” Dark fingers gathered Charles’ hands, gripping at them firmly. He was so soft and small and thin, but he was strong, wiry, months of lifting litters with bodies, of carrying boxes of supplies, of hefting his rifle while on guard duty, had made Maxwell physically strong in a way that was often hidden by his delicate, graceful clothing. “In sickness and in health. Till death do us part.” Maxwell kissed Charles’ knuckles gently, stroking over his palms, his thumbs, his wrists, pulling the doctor’s healing hands to frame his own face. “I want that. It doesn’t have to be in a church. It could be in your lawyer’s office for all I care, in the middle of the street in Boston, but I want those vows. I’ll hear them from you and I’ll say them right back and that’s all I ask.”

Charles stared at Maxwell before he drew him close, kissing him gently.

He would find a way for them to get out of this hell. There could be no justice, no god, no good in the world, if someone as young and kind and _good_ as Maxwell died here.


	23. There Is Nothing Like A Nurse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the nurse's gone from the 4077th, Maxwell takes on the task of helping the corpsman learn how to fill in the high heels of the nurses.

“Did you hear?” McIntyre called across the compound as Maxwell carried a pair of thin army issue mattresses towards the post-op, ordered to place them in front of windows to protect the patients during the expected air raid.

“Hear what?”

“If you were a nurse we’d be shipping you to the 44th right now!” McIntyre shouted to Maxwell.

Maxwell rolled his eyes. “If I was a nurse I’d be home right now, pregnant!” He shouted back, causing McIntyre and Pierce to both turn, cackling, at Charles as the man stepped out of post-op.

“Scandalous, Charles, you’d knock up a lowly Corporal?”

“Absolutely not,” Charles said simply, raising a brow at Pierce. “Merely because I am the only man in this entire camp who knows what a condom is and apparently how to properly apply them.” He held open the door to post-op for Maxwell. “And luckily for me there is no need for such precautions.”

He closed the door behind Maxwell, assisting him in his attempt to bomb-proof the hospital. It was crude and most likely ultimately useless, but it made the patients feel better as vulnerable as they were. 

“Hey, nurse-” One man called out, and Maxwell glanced over at him as he bodily shoved a bed in place. 

“Not a nurse yet,” Maxwell said, turning to look at the soldier. “What is it?” He asked, leaning over the soldier. “Fever? Pain?”

“What’s going on?” Charles glanced over as the young man’s voice shook, his eyes fixed on Maxwell as if the young corpsman held all the answers. “Why are we staying here? Why did the others go?”

Maxwell sat down on the edge of the bed, gentle and reassuring. “There’s an air raid coming,” He said, honestly. “They’re sending the nurses and all of the patients that can be moved to another M*A*S*H* unit. You and a few of the others are too weak to be moved.”

“Am I gonna die?”

“Of course not,” Maxwell smiled brightly. “See that man over there? The big guy in the coat?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s Dr. Charles Emerson Winchester III, he’s one of the best doctors out there and he’s here, in this glorified public men’s room that we call a camp, looking after you. Free of charge too! His bill gets sent straight to the U.S. government, not a penny expected from you.”

“Certainly, Corporal, he couldn’t afford me otherwise.” Charles said as he walked over to check the young man’s chart. “We’ll take care of you, Private, this air raid will happen and likely you will sleep through it entirely.”

“Knowing the army, they’ll order extra shelling just to get some excitement going,” Maxwell said wryly, patting the young soldier’s knee through the blankets before he stood. “You just rest up, if we need to run I’ll grab another corpsman and we’ll have wheelchair races with you and the other patients.”

That made the young man laugh in relief, weak but there, and Charles couldn’t help but smile at Maxwell as they checked the other patient charts together. Once Houlihan signed off on him, he’d be a perfect army nurse, with a nurturing bedside manner that Charles felt he could take notes from, he’d be well beloved amongst the wounded.

For now he’d be the closest thing they had to a nurse, in dress and profession, and Charles dreaded the fact that Maxwell would soon be the belle of the ball amongst the other surgeons.

* * *

Charles was seated at the piano in the Officer’s club, surrounded by bored servicemen without their sweethearts, trying to use the piano to drown out Pierce and McIntyre’s complaints about their loneliness, when Maxwell entered.

He was greeted by a riot of wolf-whistles and Charles turned, smiling at the sight of the black dress, long-sleeved and blending into black evening gloves. He looked like he might be auditioning for the role of Coco Chanel with the little black dress, black tights and heels, and the string of simple white pearls about his neck. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, when the nurses come back I’ll be dropped like an old shoe,” Maxwell rolled his eyes, his heels clicking on the floor as he went to Charles’ side, drawn to the man as if he was a magnet. “Lift me, slave.” Maxwell said imperiously, an imitation of Charles if the way he tried to dull down his accent was any indication. He held out his hands to the man and looked down his nose, even though he was a solid two heads shorter than Charles.

Charles gave an amused curl of his lips, standing from the piano bench in order to grasp Maxwell about his waist. It was an easy motion to lift the birdbone-frail Corporal onto the top of the upright piano. His legs crossed and Charles could see the other men in the tent stare at Maxwell’s legs. 

“Is that what I think it is, Major?” Maxwell asked, grinning as he leaned along the top of the piano, his head perched on his fist. At this height he was finally eye level with Charles, staring at the man with a sly smile. “Doesn’t sound too _classical_.”

“I may have mentioned to Honoria that it was a favourite of yours. However, recalling all of those years of childhood piano lessons has been… An adventure.”

“For everyone involved,” Pierce called from the bar.

“Steady, Pierce,” Charles said lowly, glaring at the man only briefly before he looked up at Maxwell. “Perhaps my playing will sound better with your singing to accompany?”

“Oh _no_.” One of the enlisted men groaned, and a few of them stood to leave, scrambling for their wallets to pay their tabs before the two could begin their duet.

“Key?”

“B flat.”

Charles looked at the piano, then at the music before him, adjusting his hands. “You’ll have to turn pages for me.”

“Of course,” Maxwell smiled, listening to the opening bars and watching Charles’ eyes follow the lines. It was a slow song, with plenty of lead up to allow Charles to find his rhythm. It took two false starts before Charles made it to the bar where Maxwell joined in. _“At the end of the rainbow there’s happiness, and to find it how often I’ve tried…”_ He sang, his baritone strong and even, forgiving the sins of Charles’ clumsy playing. _“But my life is a race, just a wild goose chase, and my dreams have all been denied.”_

The soldiers that had been so eager to escape the club paused, turning to watch as Charles and Maxwell continued, Maxwell posed like a beautiful chanteuse upon the top of the upright piano as if it were a grand piano in a concert hall. He tilted his head and turned a page, his black gloved fingers drawing attention from not just Charles. _“Why have I always been a failure?”_ He sang softly, forlornly. _“What can the reason be? I wonder if the world’s to blame…”_ He rested his hand upon the edge of the piano top, looking at Charles with a distant expression that the man did not like on his face. _“I wonder if it could be me…”_

A pause, Charles brushing his fingers over the piano keys in a way he wished he could touch Maxwell’s fingers, but then he continued and Maxwell shook off his thoughts, smiling broadly as his voice filled the club. _“I'm always chasing rainbows, watching clouds drifting by! My schemes are just like all my dreams: Ending in the sky.”_ He sat up slightly, crossing his legs again as his heels dangled dangerously close to the keys. _“Some fellas look and find the sunshine, I always look and find the rain. Some fellas make a winning sometimes, I never even make a gain, believe me.”_

Charles looked up, smiling softly at Maxwell as the young man turned another page for him. _“I'm always chasing rainbows… Waiting to find a little bluebird in vain.”_

Pierce and McIntyre were the first two to applaud the couple, and Charles smiled as he held out his hand to Maxwell, helping the younger man gracefully leap down from his perch in order to take his bow from the crowd gathered.

“For saving us from Charles, let us buy you a drink.”

Maxwell laughed, rolling his eyes at Captain Pierce, about to accept the drink when the P.A. crackled to life. 

“Incoming wounded via chopper and ground vehicle. All hands are needed to perform nursing duties in O.R..”

Charles stood quickly, following the other two surgeons, giving the parting order of, “Corporal, you’ll play Houlihan today, do you think you can handle it?”

Maxwell cleared his throat. “Those are some big heels to fill.”

“I understand if you wish not to, I can oversee the temporary nurses.”

“No, no, I got it,” Maxwell set his jaw. “I got this, Major.”

* * *

“You’re doing great, Father,” Maxwell’s voice was low and calm, despite the slight tremor in it. Charles was working with Private Straminsky, who looked like he was facing down an entire firing squad. 

“Breathe, Private,” Charles said simply. “Pass me that suture, the one with the 3-O silk.”

“Th-this one?”

“One, two, three from the left, Private. Excellent, there you are.”

“I’m no good with this, Major.”

“You’re doing fine, Igor,” Maxwell smiled behind his mask. “Need me to take over?”

“N-no, I got it. At least until we’re done with this guy.”

“Maxwell, please alert another corpsman that I’ll need another pair of hands. You and the Private can carry out this young man soon.”

“Yes, Major baby.” Maxwell said simply as he walked towards the door.

“Hey, Klinger.” Pierce called, making the young man pause. “You know, in this light, wearing your good brassier and those tight pants?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“You look just like Hot Lips.”

And just like that, the tension in the O.R. lifted. Even Charles couldn’t help but chuckle as Maxwell saluted and left to collect another round of hands to assist the doctors. 

A new wave of young men entered, scrubbed within an inch of their lives, even their faces raw from soap and scrub brushes. “Alright, you’re all sterile, lemme set you up with your dance partners.” Maxwell said, guiding the first young man. “Rizzo, you’re helping Dr. Pierce today, don’t go biting his head off, he needs his more than you. Burke, you’re gonna take over for Radar with Captain McIntyre.”

“Steady, Burke, don’t puke in my patient.”

“Leear, you’re with Major Winchester, he’s a pianist too so you’ll have lots to talk about.”

“At least I know that you won’t be all thumbs, Corporal Leear.” Charles said as he glanced at the man, seeing how sweat had already beaded on his forehead.

Leear swallowed audibly, choking on his next words, “I’m a mathmetician, Doctor.” 

“… Perhaps I spoke too soon, but we already have a patient coming.” Charles finished his sutures, casting aside his gloves and pulling on a new pair. “Private Straminsky, dismissed.”

“I’ll help you in a minute, Igor.” Maxwell called, turning to the last corpsman he had dragged into this mess. “Sattler, you help Colonel Blake. I’ll be right back.”

True to his word, Maxwell was back as quickly as he could be, setting up trays for new patients and showing the newly drafted male nurses how he had set them up. 

“Left to right, just like reading,” He smiled. “Everything you need is alphabetical left to right, if the doctor asks, you just gotta follow your ABCs.”

“Klinger?” Colonel Blake called as Maxwell flitted about, helping trembling nervous corpsmen and dabbing at the foreheads of the doctors. 

“Yes, sir?”

“How would you like a promotion?” The man plunked a piece of shrapnel in the tray that a shaking Sattler was holding, the other bits rattling along with the poor Private’s hands. Maxwell came over, wiping at Sattler’s forehead, murmuring a gentle reassurance before he looked at Colonel Blake.

“I’d rather a discharge, sir.” Maxwell smiled behind his mask. “Or three days in Tokyo?”

Colonel Blake tossed a used sponge onto the floor. “Sold. I’ll even send Winchester to carry your purse for you.”

“Good, I’d hate to have to pack him in my ruck sack,” Maxwell smiled over his shoulder at Charles.

Pierce was wrong, Charles decided in that moment. Maxwell couldn’t look anything like Major Houlihan. He was far too radiant for such a weak comparison. With the lights lit up around him, his dark skin practically glowing from the recent sunshine the camp had been getting, he looked more like Aesculapius, the sun-kissed son of Apollo.

But Pierce was right in the rest of his comparison: He was beautiful.


	24. The Consultant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Doctor in Tokyo comes to experience life at the 4077th.

“Henry, why couldn’t we go to Tokyo? We’d be much more fun than Major Sourpuss here!” Pierce scowled.

“Because you two would have driven right by Tokyo General Hospital on your way to the golf course,” Charles said as he zipped up his bag and turned to Blake. “Is there anything else you wish for me to get from Tokyo, Colonel Blake? Everyone else has given me a list of creature comforts and their mad money.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, there’s this little book shop on the Ginza,” Blake pulled out a bundle of crumpled bills. “Say you’re Orville Johnson.”

Charles stared at the man, then at the money, before he sighed. “I’ll have Corporal Klinger go collect that while I attend the lectures.”

“See that’s just insult atop injury!” McIntyre complained from his chair. “You we could understand getting sent to Tokyo, but why couldn’t one of us have gone too?”

“Klinger will be attending a nursing lecture.” Blake glared at the other Swamp rats. “Being short Major Houlihan made me realize that if we ever have to send the nurses away again we’d be up to our elbows in wounded and taking twice as long. Our fatality rate increased the last time, and I don’t want that happening again, not if there’s something we can do about it.”

“Major!” Maxwell’s voice called, as if summoned by the mention of his name. He was sitting in a jeep he had pulled up, wearing the brown formal uniform that all nurses wore, all the way down to the hat and heels. If Charles had lifted his skirt to check, he was certain that even Maxwell’s stockings would be standard issue. “We have a flight to catch, let’s go!”

“Coming, Corporal,” Charles called, hefting his own suitcase. “Gentlemen, I will return to you with new information that we might use to shed light on our own surgical techniques… And booze.”

“Truly, a gentleman and a scholar.” Pierce said, raising his martini. “Even if we hate your guts for getting to go to Tokyo.”

“That is my burden to bear.” Charles said simply. “And I shall bear it while sleeping on clean sheets.”

* * *

Charles and Maxwell slid into the White Lotus bar, scanning the room chocked full of American servicemen in uniform. Charles recognized a few doctors from the earlier lectures, but not many as he made his way to the end of the bar, his palm cradling the small of Maxwell’s back to keep him from being jostled. 

“This bar take servicemen, you think?” Maxwell asked as he perched on a bar stool, Charles bending his elbow along the polished wood beside the younger man’s seat. Maxwell crossed his legs beneath his standard issue brown skirt, waving down the bartender, who did a double take at the sight of the corpsman in a woman’s uniform. “I’d like a pink squirrel. And please keep bringing them until I turn into one.”

“And you, sir?”

“Scotch, please.” Charles unfolded a large bill, passing it to the bartender.

“Major?” A low voice called and Charles looked over, raising a brow at the silver-haired man that was staring at the two of them, smiling a good-natured smile. “You wouldn’t happen to be Charles Winchester?”

“One of three, Major,” Charles said as he held out his hand to the man. “This is Corporal Klinger.”

“Enchanted.” The man took Maxwell’s hand, giving a chaste, gentlemanly kiss to the knuckles, and then shook Charles’ hand firmly. “Anthony Borelli. The rank is honorary, I’m here as a civilian medical consultant.”

“Be careful about that talk,” Charles said simply. “I was drafted as a medical consultant as well, and now I work at a M*A*S*H* unit three miles from the front. Your fortunes might end up changing.”

Their drinks were brought by and Charles took his while Maxwell delightedly smiled at the pink drink before him, clumsily saying “arigato” to the bartender. Dr. Borelli looked absolutely charmed as he gathered his own drink in hand. 

“Happy days,” Borelli lifted his glass in a toast and Charles and Maxwell lifted their own glasses as well.

“In the army?” Maxwell asked with a raised brow, obviously unimpressed with the toast.

Borelli seemed caught off guard by that, blinking as he looked between the two men, “Don’t you like soldier suits?”

“Not especially,” Maxwell shrugged one shoulder, sipping at his coupe filled with alcohol. “I don’t like guns or death that much.”

“It makes him a gifted nurse,” Charles said simply. “We’ve come here for the surgical conference, but we are hardly happy about the circumstances, nor are we optimistic about how applicable these techniques can be.”

“Well, you never know…” Borelli said simply. “A lot of very fine doctors have come a long way to speak.”

“Doc, we’re from a M*A*S*H* unit, Major Winchester here said it was three miles from the front, but that measurement moves on the daily.” 

“We have seven tables and currently five doctors, so there are always at least two soldiers bleeding out while we try to race through their comrades.” Charles stared at the man, who looked quietly at them. 

“Belly wounds, dangling limbs, chest wounds. We’re lucky if they have half their organs still intact by the time we get them on a litter.” Maxwell waved at the bartender and the man smiled, charmed by the young Corporal, and whipped up another drink for him. 

“We close them up and ship them off to Tokyo as fast as we can, often times before we can even get our hands out.” Charles sipped at his scotch, his weary eyes fixed on Borelli’s own.

“Sounds challenging.”

“Not there by choice,” Maxwell said with an attempt at levity. “When the Army came for me I ran like a thief into Grand Central Station. They cornered me in a pay toilet and it cost them four dollars in nickels to get me out.”

“Have you ever been to Korea, Dr. Borelli?” Charles asked, raising a brow at the other man.

“No, I have not.”

“Charming place,” Charles’ wry tone made Maxwell chuckle in the way he always did when he got tipsy. “In addition to trauma surgery and wholesale amputation we have typhus, filariasis, encephalitis, typhoid, paratyphoid, and cholera.”

“The Detroit of bacteria.” Maxwell scoffed, waving down the bartender. “Another for me and my man here.” He pat at Charles’ arm and the bartender nodded. 

“And even with all of that, operating in the muck and mud and filth, I would not trade my current post for returning here.” Charles said simply, staring at Dr. Borelli. 

The man startled at that, blinking at them. 

“Do not misunderstand, Doctor, I would rather be back home in Boston at any given moment of any given day, but my work in Korea… It has meaning.” He gestured to the bar around them. “You do not get an idea of what the war really is from here, what doctors on the front struggle with. If you and the other consultants that the Army has so thoughtfully arranged for us truly want to help… Then come out to a M*A*S*H* unit or an aid station.”

“No thanks,” Dr. Borelli laughed. “I saw my share of the front lines in World War I, and II.”

Charles didn’t regret his words, but backed down from the argument he was stirring up. “More than fair.” He lifted the new drink brought to him. “To World War None.” Charles and Maxwell downed their drinks in one long swallow before Charles gestured his arm to Maxwell. “Shall we, Corporal?”

“You owe me some dancing, Major,” Maxwell said as he slid off the bar stool, taking Charles’ arm. “Goodbye, Dr. Borelli.”

“Bye,” The man waved at the two of them, Charles giving a nod as he walked a stumbling, drunk Maxwell into the Tokyo streets, in search of someplace he could indulge Maxwell in a dance.

* * *

Getting Maxwell out of bed the morning of their departure back to Korea was a struggle, but one that Charles delighted in, kissing over Maxwell’s dark thighs, smoothing over his back, his sides, giving soft bites to his tender stomach until the younger man was a moaning wreck, one leg slung over Charles’ shoulder to hold him in place. 

It was another hour before they were on a plane back to Seoul, wrapped up in their own little world as Maxwell waited until they were well in the air before he lit his cigar, leaning back in his seat and watching the world outside the window while Charles organized his notes from the lecture. 

It was a tragically short two hour flight, and when they arrived they quickly moved to requisition a jeep, Maxwell squaring his shoulders with all the confidence that only an enlisted man could summon. Charles waited with their luggage, watching Maxwell bargain and haggle with the requisition officer with all the skill of a man who’s ancestors haggled horses and camels with a practiced ease. 

“Major Winchester,” A voice called and Charles turned, eyes widening for a brief moment when he saw Dr. Borelli in his brown dress uniform, a suitcase in hand. “I decided to get out of the locker room, Major. I’ll get into the game.”

Charles smiled at that, a small curl of his lips, and shook the other doctor’s hand. “I’m sure you’ll find Korea everything we described and then some.”

“May your mother’s figs always whither!” Maxwell’s voice sounded from the requisition office and Borelli blinked at the sight of the other man wearing a pink and red sundress, a pink hat strung with artificial cherries pinned into his hair. 

“That’s the Corporal?”

“One of his nicer outfits, but no one back at camp ever compliments it,” Charles said simply, by way of explanation. 

Maxwell came stomping back to the two Majors, gathering up his suitcase before he led the way to a jeep.

“Where’s the keys, Maxwell?”

The young man knelt, opening his suitcase and coming up with a screwdriver. “Right here, Major.” 

“That’s-”

“You wanna walk, Dr. Borelli?” Maxwell asked, raising his brow as he opened up one of the jeeps lined up in the airport lot. “The 4077th is getting clobbered and we’re unable to get a chopper, so we’re gonna be driving.”

“Is that safe?”

“Not ‘tall,” Charles said as he loaded luggage into the vehicle. “And we don’t have our helmets, so keep your head down.”

The jeep roared to life and Maxwell climbed into the driver seat, waiting until Charles was in the passenger before he threw the vehicle into drive. “Hold on, Dr. Borelli, Major baby, I’ll get us there in a jiff!”

Maxwell, Charles was convinced, was a getaway driver for the mob in another life. He took turns with no hesitation, when he heard shelling come a touch too close he merely accelerated to the sheer limits of the vehicle. He clutched the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip, rigid with fear, but faced that panic with all the determination of someone who knew that staying still would get him killed, that what he had to do was _move_. 

They arrived at the 4077th to chaos, ambulances and choppers bringing in a flood of wounded. Charles immediately removed his jacket and hat while Maxwell jumped out of the jeep, racing over to grab a litter along with another corpsman. 

“Come along, Doctor, time to scrub up,” Charles shouted over the general noise of the 4077th in action. 

Borelli scrubbed quickly and followed Charles into the operating room, ready to observe for his first day.

“Colonel Blake, I brought something home with me, we might have to keep him.”

“What the hell, Winchester?”

“This is Dr. Borelli, he gave a few lectures this weekend in Tokyo,” Charles moved to the nearest table. “He wanted to see what it was like working in a M*A*S*H* unit.”

“It seems everything Major Winchester said it was,” A young man gave a death rattle on a table and Burns reached down, pressing his finger to the boy’s neck to find a pulse. “And more.”

“This one’s dead, bring in another.” Burns called, walking to another table and checking the man. “That leg can’t be saved, get me a knife and have a saw ready.”

Borelli watched as Burns went to the table and Charles, wrist deep in the patient he had claimed, looked up to see the man casually looking down at the soldier’s mangled leg. “Wait,” Borelli looked up at Burns. “That leg can be saved. We can do an arterial transplant, we just need another leg.”

“Doctor, we do not have _time_ for that here,” Charles called, but Colonel Blake, Captain Pierce and McIntyre were already going over to speak with the doctor about the prospect of learning how to do the arterial transplants.

When Colonel Blake called for O’Reilly, Charles felt his heart sinking, not quite knowing why.

* * *

“Dr. Borelli, please report to O.R. immediately. Dr. Borelli to O.R..” The P.A. system crackled to life and Charles looked up from where he was scrubbing up to observe the surgery. It had been a precious two hours of finding, retrieving, and preparing the artery for transplant, and in all that time Charles had not seen Borelli once. Perhaps because he had been in surgery, working until his finger ached in an attempt to pick up the absence of McIntyre and Pierce as they went to retrieve the artery. He had gotten a brief cup of coffee from the mess, had been fed a peanut butter sandwich by Maxwell, and now was waiting on the other surgeon to arrive for his grand solo in this opera of horrors.

“Major,” Maxwell’s voice called from the doorway. “Dr. Borelli is in the Swamp… You better come get him.”

Charles froze at that, glancing at Pierce and McIntyre before he nodded to them. “You make sure Burns doesn’t get started without us, I’ll retrieve Borelli.”

It was a quick walk to the Swamp, exhaustion making his steps heavy, but Maxwell’s concern made him determined. He didn’t quite know what to expect when he opened the door to the Swamp, but it was certainly less gruesome than his imagination had concocted. 

Dr. Borelli was seated in Pierce’s chair, cradling a martini glass in his hands, staring into the middle-distance with an all too familiar look that Charles had seen before. Sometimes on his own face.

“Dr. Borelli, the dance is about to begin, you need to come stand your partner up.” Charles said as he approached the other man. He could smell the alcohol on him, stronger than even Pierce and McIntyre’s most gin-soaked benders. “You’re not fit to operate.” He said, shocked despite himself. For all his skepticism, he had hoped that the man ‘s duty as a doctor would have made him keep his wits about him. That a young man’s leg being on the line might make him hold himself together at the seams, at least for long enough to save the young man’s future. “Well then. I’ll just tell the patient that his doctor is soused, I do hope that he doesn’t mind walking around for the rest of his life on a tree trunk.” Charles felt his anger rising, boiling in his veins.

“You can do it, Doctor Winchester,” Doctor, not Major this time, and didn’t that simply take it all? “I’ve watched you work. There was a reason you were head of thoracic surgery at Boston General.”

“I’ve never done it. I’ve never even seen it done.” Charles shouted, infuriated at the man. “Pandering to my ego will not change the fact that that boy has just had his life ruined and his hopes dashed because of _you_!”

Dr. Borelli put the glass down and stood, surprisingly steady. “I’ll be right behind you, Winchester.”

Charles scoffed. “A great comfort, I’m sure.” He turned, seeing Maxwell standing in the doorway of the tent, looking uncertainly at Charles, then at Borelli. “Maxwell, scrub up the doctor and do not let him _touch_ any tools in the O.R..”

“Yes, Major,” Maxwell said, reaching over to grasp Borelli’s arm in his strong fingers. “Come on, Doc, gotta get you ready for the big dance.”

Standing with every doctor and nurse available surrounding him, Charles felt the pressure of every eye in the room resting upon him. Borelli stood at the base of the table while Charles and Pierce operated together. Borelli gave clear, precise instructions, and Charles was at least grateful that in his current state he could still remember the steps of the operation. He prayed quietly that his own hands wouldn’t shake the entire time that he was knuckle deep in the boy’s tissues, trying to restore life into what might soon be a dead limb. He knew what failure would entail. Best case, they would need to remove the leg anyway. Worst case, the boy would die. 

“Okay, now release the vascular clamp, Doctor.”

Charles obeyed, “It’s leaking at the upper suture line.”

“Put another stitch in.”

Charles did so, tying off the suture and Pierce cut the thread. 

“Try it again.” Borelli’s voice called to them.

“It’s holding,” Charles gave a chuckle. 

“Pulse is good, foot is getting pink and warming up.” Borelli said, smiling at them. “Good work, Doctors.”

“Thanks, Doc.” Pierce laughed, giggling in delight.

“They couldn’t have done it better at Boston General.” Borelli said, and Charles scowled, but didn’t say anything, beginning to close. “You did a good job, Winchester.”

“Someone had to.” Charles looked up at Borelli, and wondered if perhaps this was his future. He recalled, quietly, being high on the amphetamines. Had he been unfit to operate? He must have been, even if he couldn’t remember. But was he destined to become like Borelli? His addiction slowly taking over, creeping into every inch of his life until he couldn’t do the thing he took the most pride in?

It was a dreadful thought, but one that Charles knew he had to nurse in order to keep himself from falling victim to the same mistakes the other man made.

Stepping out of the O.R., Charles removed his scrubs, washed his hands and face, then breathed deeply, trying to decide what to do. Borelli was in the Swamp, most likely celebrating with Pierce and McIntyre with more gin. 

“Hey, Major baby,” Maxwell called softly, standing in his stockings and dressing gown, looking up at Charles worriedly. “You okay?”

Charles stared at Maxwell, sitting on the bench in the scrub room before he whispered, “Will that be me, one day?”

“Will what be you?” Maxwell asked, moving to stand in front of the other man. Charles reached out, his hands framing Maxwell’s waist before he drew him close, his face pressed to Maxwell’s neck and jaw, smelling his perfume and the scent of standard army issue soap. 

“Borelli. Will I be too drunk, too high, too… Broken… To perform surgery.”

“No, you won’t.” Maxwell said, quickly and firmly. 

“How can you know that? Gypsy magic?”

“No,” Maxwell gripped Charles’ face, tilted his head, and Charles stared into dark eyes. “Because you’ll have me to keep you on the right path.”

“That’s not what you signed up for,” Charles whispered, choking on his breath. 

“ _That_ is marriage,” Maxwell said simply. “And it is exactly what I signed up for.”


	25. House Arrest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles is placed under house arrest, and he and Houlihan come to an uneasy truce.

“Major Houlihan, if you cannot keep your mind on your job then stay out of the O.R..” Charles said as he washed his hands after surgery, his temper flaring, cold and sharp as a mid-winter blizzard. 

“Major Burns, make him stop!” Houlihan shouted, turning to look at Burns. 

“Now see here, Winchester-” Burns began, his lips thinning in displeasure.

“Your performance in O.R. today was inexcusable, Houlihan, especially coming from our Head Nurse. Three mistakes on one spleen, tools dropped, we had to open up that last poor boy because he had a sponge left inside that you had not removed.”

“Oh, you’re just sour because you didn’t get to work with your pet transvestite!” Burns snapped, attempting to stand up for Houlihan. 

“He would have been an improvement!” Charles shouted, his voice roaring as he stood, towering over the two other Majors while Pierce and McIntyre sat on the bench in the scrub room, watching the sight unfold like it was movie night. “Private Straminsky would have been an improvement, at least he has the excuse of being the miserable excuse for a sous chef that this army has! You are a nurse, you have always been a career military nurse and what? Because one Colonel Reese is coming? She might be the most decorated nurse in the Army, but you are _our_ head nurse and we need your head here, not with Colonel Fucking Reese, who might prove a more fatal distraction to you than the two degenerates I share a tent with!”

“Winchester, watch your language!” Burns shouted, moving to stand close to Charles, trying to appear taller and more threatening than he was, even with Charles’ bulk all but eclipsing his own. 

“Yeah, I can’t allow that sort of language around Pierce, I promised his mother.” McIntyre said from his seat, grinning in delight at the sight before him. 

“I know my job!” Houlihan shouted, throwing a towel down on the floor. “I didn’t get to be Major just by sitting on my duff!”

“No, you became Major by laying on your back with every General that passed through your tent.” Charles snarled back, glaring at the woman as she gaped at him.

“Major Burns!” Houlihan gasped. “I demand an apology!”

“I refuse.” Charles scoffed. 

“I demand satisfaction!”

“Tired lately, Frank?” Pierce called from his seat, his grin splitting so wide it threatened to tear at his ears. 

“Major Burns, he has insulted my honor, you _must_ do something about it!”

“L-like what? Something official or what?” Burns simpered, glancing from Houlihan to Charles then back again as Charles continued to throughly wash the day’s surgery from his arms. 

“Do _something_!” She huffed, glaring at Burns. 

Charles watched as Burns rubbed his face, looking at Charles, before he collected a rubber glove from the box. He walked over to Charles, who continued to watch him even as his hands worked soap into his hands. 

“Major Winchester, you brought this on yourself.” 

Like a man initiating a duel, Burns slapped Charles with the rubber glove, the impact sound enough to sting, but not enough to move Charles’ head. There was silence in the scrub room, nobody spoke, all waiting for Charles’ response. 

The man stood, took a towel to wipe down his hands, calmly, carefully drying each finger. No emotion showed on his face, wearing the same polite expression he wore when someone bored him enough. He stood before Burns, took a deep breath, stared at the man and then pulled his fist back in a punch that no one, not even Charles himself, had been expecting.

His knuckles hurt, but nothing was broken, the skin hadn’t even split. Perhaps there would be a bruise on his hand later, but Burns was currently sporting a black eye as he screamed and writhed on the ground. McIntyre moved to help the man up alongside Houlihan, but Burns surged to his feet all on his own, screaming in Charles’ face as he clutched his already bruised and swelling eye. 

“Winchester, I accuse you of striking a superior officer! A court-martial offense under the articles of war, and I have _three_ witnesses!”

“I didn’t see anything, did you?” McIntyre asked Pierce.

“My back was turned.”

“Case dismissed, also on the grounds that you are not my superior in _any_ way, even if you have managed to labor under the continued delusion that I am not also a Major.” Charles scoffed, tossing his towel into Burns’ face before he turned to leave, hearing Houlihan shout about how she was a witness the entire walk back to the Swamp.

* * *

“Listen, we’re all a little buggy here lately, I yell at Radar all the time,” Blake said, desperate to keep the piece between his two ranking surgeons. “Winchester will apologize, won’t you, Winchester?”

“No,” Charles said simply, sitting in Blake’s chair, his hands laced over his stomach. “I stand by not only my words but my actions as well. If I had managed to knock Major Burns into a coma I would have saved countless lives.” 

“Oh damnit all to hell, Winchester, can’t you just apologize to the man?”

“I _can_. But I will not.” Charles stood, glaring at Burns. “I have withstood the Major’s frequent harassment, rumor-mongering, and general unpleasantness for nearly a year now. Do you have any idea what it is like for a man who believes himself to be all of the founding fathers when truly he is all three stooges rolled up in one?”

“I demand that he be court-marial’d!” Burns shouted, holding an ice pack to his face. 

Charles was certain that if he rolled his eyes any harder that they might fall clean out of the sockets, glaring at Burns as the man stamped his foot. “I want him punished in _some_ way!”

“Fine, fine, what if I… I’m not gonna court-martial him, but what if I placed him under house arrest for a month?” Blake looked at Burns, then at Charles, who perked up at that thought.

“House arrest?” He asked. “So I can only sit in my tent and eat and sleep and read?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m yours.” Charles held out his hands to Blake. “Take me, I haven’t slept properly in a year.”

“Fine!” Burns sneered, glaring at Charles before his lips curled smugly. “That means you can’t go visit Klinger for a month. Wonder how we’ll you go with that!”

* * *

Charles was certain that his reputation in the camp fluctuated more frequently than the weather during monsoon season.

Sitting in his tent he had been visited by a steady procession of personnel, all bringing him tribute as if he were some pagan god. Private Straminsky had brought him ice cream to go with the bottle of whiskey that Pierce and McIntyre had purloined from Colonel Blake’s office. Even Father Mulcahy had brought Charles a “Prisoner of War” kit that had contained a razor, toothpaste, soap, six aspirin, a wash cloth, and four Oreo cookies.

“Hello, Major baby.” Maxwell said with a grin, a tray in hand. He was standing in the doorway to the swamp, posed in the green backless silk dress that Charles was almost certain he would break his Hippocratic oath over. Maxwell was a symphony in coordination with a gold ring, bracelet, necklace and dangling earrings that brushed over his bare collarbone. “Time for dinner.”

“Are you dessert?” Charles asked, his eyes trailing over the man’s body. 

“You two _disgust_ me.” Burns scowled as he glared at them. 

Maxwell raised a brow at Burns, “How often do you discuss us, sir? Got something you’re hiding in your closet?”

“Oh… _you_!” Burns snapped, glaring as he stormed out of the Swamp, leaving Charles and Maxwell alone. 

Maxwell made an attempt at modesty, perching delicately at the edge of Charles’ bed, sliding the tray onto the crate that Charles was using as a dining table. Charles waited until Maxwell had carefully arranged the covered tray for him before he lifted the younger man into his lap, smirking at him smugly. 

“You never did answer me about that dessert.”

“Igor already brought you ice cream!”

“Well, you know how my sweet tooth is.” Charles said, biting at Maxwell’s neck gently, as if he might devour the Corporal.

“Well then you’ll miss out on Mess Sergeant Gifford’s nice meal that he fixed up special for you.”

“Ah, so I am finally on the Mess Sergeant’s good side again?”

“Ever since he heard you belted Burns in the face.” Maxwell flourished the cloth away from the tray. “Voila! Steak.”

“Steak?” Charles stared at the tray. “What is it from? You know my views on cannibalism, darling?”

“I got bitemarks that say those views are flexible,” Maxwell teased, draping his arms over Charles’ shoulders. “Water buffalo.”

“Water buffalo?” Charles asked, raising a brow. 

“Water buffalo.”

Charles looked at the steak before he leaned over to pick up the knife and fork, struggling only momentarily while Maxwell remained in his lap. “Likely tough as a rubber sheet.”

Maxwell laughed, taking the knife and fork from Charles’ hands to cut up the steak into bite sized chunks, holding up a steaming piece of the meat to Charles’ mouth. “No no, a little old lady rode it to church every Sunday.”

Hunger at the idea of tasting a real steak again overrode any hesitation Charles had. He took the bite and after two chews his eyes rolled back and he let out a moan. “Delicious, it certainly tastes like church buffalo.” He took the fork and skewered another piece, holding it up to Maxwell’s lips. “Here, darling, have a bite.”

“Major Winchester?” Charles looked up from his meal, Maxwell taking another bite for himself. The door to the Swamp swung shut behind Major Houlihan, the woman wringing a letter nervously between her fingers. “Is this a bad time?”

“What is it, Houlihan?” Charles asked with a sigh, Maxwell fed him another bite, ignoring the woman altogether as they sat. Houlihan watched them uncertainly, frowning slightly, but not saying anything. She didn’t seem disgusted, more just… Uncertain about what she was looking at. Growing up in the army, likely she had never seen homosexuality in person. To her, Charles was sure it was as nebulous as space travel or deep sea fishing, something she knew existed, but didn’t quite know the precise details of.

“Just… Major Burns told me to post this.” She placed the letter in front of Charles and he picked it up, looking at the open flap. 

“Steam, hmm?” Maxwell asked when he saw the open letter, taking another bite from Charles’ steak, still refusing to move as his foot bounced, his golden high heels and ankle bracelet catching the dim light of the tent.

Houlihan straightened, scowling at Maxwell more out of instinct than insult, “How did you-”

“Maxwell has used that tactic to open letters from Major Burns’ wife, it was always entertaining to read her responses to his creative writing attempts.” Charles opened the letter and read it over. Then read it again, cursing Frank Burns and his entire family line as he rubbed his mouth and stared at the letter’s contents, trying to scramble through his thoughts in order to come up with some form of plan, some sort of defense. Maxwell took the letter and his face paled slightly at the contents, flicking through it, photographs falling into his lap. Thankfully the photos showed nothing sexual, but it did show stolen kisses, Charles painting Maxwell’s toes, the two of them dancing together in an empty officer’s club.

“I won’t send it.” Houlihan whispered, staring at the two.

Charles looked up at her and narrowed his eyes. “What do you want, Major Houlihan? What price do I have to pay for that favor?”

“Nothing! Just…” Houlihan sighed and looked at Charles, then at Maxwell, before she sat down on Burns’ bed. “You were right. About my performance. I was so worked up and insulted that… That I failed the patients and doctors both. I’m supposed to set an example, and I’ve been setting a pretty poor one lately.” She took the letter and threw it into the stove in the Swamp, along with the photographs. “You taught Klinger how to be a nurse. You pushed me to teach him, even though I degraded him and yelled and tried to get him to give up. And then when we were all safe at the 44th, you were helping corpsmen. I spoke with Private Straminsky, you know?”

“What did he say?” Charles asked, curious as to what the Private had said to thaw Major Houlihan’s regulation Army heart.

“He said that he was terrified you’d yell at him. That you’d be furious at him for messing up. But you weren’t.” Houlihan sighed. “And I know that… That the reason for that is because he didn’t know what he was doing. He’d been given an impossible task that he had never been prepared for. I don’t have that excuse. I was always an army brat, it’s all I’ve ever known. Me being nervous about a superior officer coming shouldn’t have made me rattle the way I did.”

Charles was silent for a few long moments before he said, “I apologize for my implications towards your honor, Margaret.” He held out his hand to her. “You are a fine nurse and a fine woman. I was merely… As Colonel Blake has said, buggy. You did not deserve that insult.”

Houlihan smiled at him and shook his hand, a clear sign of forgiveness without her having to say the words. “I’ll get the Colonel to release you from house arrest. I’ll tell him the truth.”

“Which one?” Maxwell asked, grinning broadly at the woman.

“That Frank slipped on a bar of soap.”


	26. Abyssinia, Henry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry Blake leaves the 4077th.

“Alright, alright, settle down, settle down.” Henry Blake hadn’t stopped smiling since he got the news that he was going to be discharged. He stood in his office with his officers and chaplain all gathered. Pierce and McIntyre were blowing on old noise makers from New Year’s Eve and Burns and Houlihan were applauding. Even Charles was smiling and shook Blake’s hand before he sat back down. “Okay, settle down, everything is going to be changing around here. I’m sure all of you know that.”

Burns and Houlihan straightened, preening as they watched Blake expectantly.

“Lots of things changing.” Blake sat down at his desk, looking at the group. “I’ve… I’ve served with you all through some tough times. Times I’ll never forget.” He smiled at them. “You’re all good people, real good people. I just wanted to share a drink with everyone before the party and before I go.”

O’Reilly poured a mess of drinks for everyone, clearly an attempt to empty out Blake’s liquor cabinet before he left. They lifted their drinks, waiting for Blake to give the toast.

“This place is hell. It changes you, makes you see things that… That you’d never thought you’d live to see, and change in ways that you never thought you’d change.” Blake cleared his throat, tears brimming in his eyes. “All of you have made this hell a little more bearable. If I could… If I could pack all of you up in my luggage then we’d all be going home.”

“Don’t think about that, Henry,” Pierce smiled. “Just get home, tell us all how it feels.”

Blake lifted his glass and everyone joined the toast. “To going home.” He said.

“To going home.” They all echoed before draining their drinks.

Sitting together, they were quiet for a long moment, sharing it with Henry Blake for the last time. 

“Now! To business!” Blake straightened in his seat. “I’ve been informed that a new Commanding officer of the 4077th is still being selected. Our efficiency is such that there is a high standard set for my replacement. However that happened.” Blake cleared his throat. “I have selected the Major that will be in charge in the interim, and that will be Major Winchester.”

“ _What_?” Burns asked, his voice rising an octave. “You’re promoting _him_?”

“He’s not going to be a Colonel, Burns, he’s just taking over and manning the shop before another guy with birds on his collar pins can come take over.” Blake was clearly trying to calm the man down. It didn’t work, not while Burns was sniveling and hyperventilating. “It’s a decision I’ve made based on his history. He is used to managing a team of doctors as head of thoracic surgery back in Boston.” 

“He’s also not going to go mad with power like you would, Frank.” Pierce pointed out. 

Charles cleared his throat, smiling softly at Blake as the man looked at him. “Colonel, I’m sure that I will not be able to measure up to your shoes, but I will endeavor to make sure that our reputation and our 98% survival rate remains intact.” He raised his glass again in a brief gesture of respect and Blake smiled. 

“Go easy on everyone. The new C.O. is gonna take some getting used to.” He looked at the others. “And all of you are going to have to help not only the new C.O. but the enlisted men. This is gonna be a rough few months up ahead, but I know that all of you are going to make it out smelling like roses.”

“Roses?” Pierce asked with a grin. “Here?”

“You know what I mean!” Blake huffed, laughing before he looked at O’Reilly. “Pour everyone another round, Radar.”

* * *

“What do you wanna do?” Maxwell asked as Charles laid on his cot, the smaller man laying on Charles’ broad torso. One foot was dangling off the bed, the other resting between Charles’ knees. Every so often Maxwell’s foot flexed and his heeled shoe would teeter on the ends of his toes, threatening to fall to the ground. “Your first day back in Boston? What would your ideal day be?”

“I would first make sure that Honoria was waiting for us at the airport.” Charles smiled as he stroked over Maxwell’s bare back, the younger man practically purring at the feeling of his warm palms on warmer skin. “And if we landed in the morning then we’d go for breakfast on the Harborwalk.” He could see it now. Maxwell in a white sunhat and matching white sundress, walking alongside Honoria, the two of them chatting as the ocean breeze whipped their skirts about one another. Charles would linger behind them for a bit, watching them laugh and chatter. They’d delight in one another, he knew. 

“What then?”

“A brunch at the Sail Loft. Have you ever had lobster?”

“No, but Captain Pierce says that it’s delicious.” Maxwell smiled as he rested his cheek on Charles’ chest, watching the man smile as he looked back down at Maxwell, long fingers sliding up his spine to play with his hair.

“I’d buy you lobster, champagne.”

“For breakfast?”

“Of course. What is the point of wealth if you cannot cast aside social norms?”

“And after breakfast?”

“I’d take you to Beacon Hill.” Charles murmured, rolling their bodies until Maxwell was beneath him, gently kissing the young man’s jaw, neck, shoulder. “I’d send Honoria off to do whatever she pleases, but you and I would be at our home. I’d give you the grand tour, every room, and ravage you senseless.”

Maxwell gave a sly grin, stroking over Charles’ shoulders as he watched the man kiss down his chest. “You sure you can keep up?”

A bite to Maxwell’s ribs, firm enough to leave a bruise, and the young man laughed, squirming under Charles’ lips. “I will certainly find a way to exhaust you long before my own weariness takes hold.”

They laid like that for a time, Charles listening to Maxwell’s heart beat beneath his skin, his broad palm stroking over the lean waist of the Corporal. 

“Think you can take me to a Red Sox game?” Maxwell asked with a smile. 

“Of course, darling. Anything you’d like.”

“And I’ve never been to the symphony. I’d like to see what’s got you so worked up over missing it.”

“Yes, I look forward to showing you off.”

“What about…” Maxwell stroked his fingers through what was left of Charles’ hair. “What about a welcome home party? Could I meet your family?”

“If that is what you wish, though I warn you they are less than agreeable people normally.”

“I just want to see the faces of the people that hate me without even knowing me,” Maxwell said simply. “So I can tell them all where to shove their opinions.”

Charles laughed, a full-bellied sound and kissed Maxwell, hugging him close. “You’re a wonderful little creature, Maxwell, I cannot wait to see you paint Boston red.”

* * *

Charles had Corporal O’Reilly call everyone to assembly. Burns was standing, scowling at him as Charles listened to O’Reilly butcher the bugle call, watching the others come out of their tents and across the compound to wish Henry Blake a fond farewell. The only person who could keep a dry eye was Burns, but as far as Charles was concerned the other surgeon was not quite a _person_ per se as a hernia given human form. 

And he was now _Charles’_ hernia to deal with. 

Blake came out of his tent dressed in a civilian suit, gifted to him while Pierce, McIntyre, and O’Reilly had taken him out the night before for one last romp.

Charles smiled, he didn’t give Blake a salute, but a polite nod of his head and a firm hand shake. Blake smiled at him, swallowing. “Take it easy, Winchester.”

The taller man smiled and stepped aside, gesturing to the clumsily assembled troops. Only Houlihan and Burns were in uniform, everyone else was out of uniform in some way or another, rumpled or dirty or just not wearing any form of fatigues at all. “Go ahead, say goodbye, Colonel Blake.” 

Colonel Blake walked along the line of troops, smiling as he started at Pierce, holding out his hand to the man. “So long, Hawk.”

Pierce pushed the man’s hand away, smiling as he looked at him. “I’m afraid just a handshake won’t do it, Henry.” He pulled Henry into a tight hug, kissing each cheek before he released the man. “Make sure to tell us all how it is to breathe fresh air again.”

“I will.” Henry whispered, moving down the line to McIntyre, who adjusted Blake’s jacket with both hands. “Trap, thanks for the outfit, it’s really dressy.”

“Henry,” McIntyre looked as if he wanted to say something else, say more, but he merely said, “that suit is really you.”

“You want me to call your wife when I get back?” Blake asked softly, looking at McIntyre’s face questioningly.

“Yeah. That’d be swell. Tell her I’m… I’m okay. And I miss her and the girls.”

Blake nodded, stepping down the line. “Father Mulcahy, you ol’ sky pilot, you.” He jostled Mulcahy’s shoulder fondly, smiling broadly at the man.

Mulcahy made a sigh of the cross in the air before he rested a hand on Blake’s chest. “Bless you, Henry Blake. Your work here will never be forgotten.”

“Thank you, Father.” He moves down to stand in front of Maxwell, taking in the silver dress with red faux fur trim, a hat with a towering column of fake fruit resting atop his head, it was certainly one of Maxwell’s more extravagant and entertaining get-ups and Charles couldn’t help but smile when Blake said, “Klinger, that outfit might just get you that section 8.”

Maxwell smiled, weakly, “I made it just for this occasion, sir… I was in such a hurry I didn’t get the back zipped.”

Blake nodded, looking at Maxwell with a smile, “I’ll do it.”

Maxwell turned, and Blake gripped the zipper, prompting the younger man to say, “ _Up_ , sir.” When the dress was zipped, Maxwell held out a picture from his pocket. “Sir, I have a picture of me. Would you carry it in your wallet?”

Blake looked at the photo that Charles had taken on Maxwell’s request months ago, smiling fondly at the image, “Your pink evening gown.”

“I knew it was your favorite, sir.” Maxwell laughed weakly. 

Blake moved to the end of the line, where O’Reilly stood, staring up at him with tears running freely down his face. “Bye, Radar,” Blake whispered. “I’ll call you.” 

“Goodbye, sir, you’re…” Radar’s voice dropped lower and whatever he said was unheard, but Charles could guess that the Corporal was telling Blake how he was the father he always wanted. Some things weren’t meant to be heard by eavesdroppers. 

Blake stepped away from the assembled men and women, clearing his throat and blinking away tears as the sound of chopper blades overwhelmed the compound. “Well, uh, so long, everybody. So long and good luck.”

Even as he was preparing to leave, Blake tried to care for a young boy being removed from the rumble seats of the chopper, ushered into the seat beside the pilot with his luggage. Charles helped McIntyre remove and carry the litter to the jeep they had ridden up in, taking a brief moment to wave as the Colonel was lifted off the ground, to return home. 

As the chopper flew over camp, everyone waved off Colonel Henry Blake for the last time.

* * *

“Radar, put a mask on, you’re not sterile!” Trapper shouted as O’Reilly entered the O.R.. Colonel Blake’s leaving had heralded a deluge of wounded, and now the O.R. was packed with patients, nurses and corpsmen. 

O’Reilly leaned against an empty table, looking sick, and Charles straightened, frowning at the uncharacteristic silence from the Corporal. “O’Reilly, are you well? If you’re sick we need to know, it might spread through camp.”

“I have a message.” O’Reilly whispered, clearing his throat before announcing to the room. “Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake’s plane was shot down over the sea of Japan.” Everyone froze, listening as O’Reilly breathed deeply and tried to make it through the announcement. “It spun in. There were no survivors.”

Charles stared ahead in the silence that followed O’Reilly’s exit. There was no stopped movement, everyone worked. But Houlihan was crying, choking on sobs. Burns stared ahead as well, silent and shocked. Pierce and McIntyre remained at their table, but there was no wise cracking, no jokes to lighten the mood. How could they? When one of their own who had been freed from this khaki hell had died on his flight back home.

Perhaps none of them would make it out alive, perhaps that was this place’s curse that had downed Henry Blake’s plane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Season 3.


	27. Change of Command

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles is relieved of his duties as C.O. of the 4077th.

The arrival of BJ Hunnicutt was sobering in a way that Charles had never felt before. It was horrifying to quietly realize that he and the rest of the staff at the 4077th could look at the mutilated body of a soldier and casually say that he should never have been brought back to the pre-op, he should have been left in triage.

It was a callousness that Charles never thought he would develop, not when he had become so used to saving lives in Boston General. It was also a callousness that Charles was nearly certain that their new commanding officer would develop. 

“What is it, Chuckles, I was right in the middle of a very nice nurse.” Pierce said as he stumbled in dressed in his bath robe. McIntyre and Hunnicutt were trailing after him, Hunnicutt looking the least hungover of the three, as per usual.

“I’m here to hand in my resignation as commanding officer,” Charles said as he finished signing the daily reports and the requisition forms for more medical supplies that O’Reilly had left on his desk that morning. “If you read every other word, it doubles as a suicide note.” Placing the forms aside, Charles held up the letter he had received in the morning mail, Maxwell leaning over his shoulder, smoking a cigar like it might be the last one he ever had. “I suppose I shall, as you say, cut through the fat.” He handed the thick envelope over to Pierce. “We’re getting a new commanding officer. Colonel Sherman Potter.”

“They’re not promoting you?” McIntyre asked with a frown, leaning over Pierce’s shoulder with Hunnicutt mirroring his motion on Pierce’s other side. “I’d like to see that just to see Frank’s head spin.”

“No, I will not be promoted and we were all well aware that that particular prospect would not occur,” Charles gestured between himself and Maxwell. “All of the generals are not blind, even if they decide to turn a blind eye on this little slice of heaven every so often.”

“They can’t do that, they have no proof, besides, you’ve kept this place running well enough.” Hunnicutt pointed out, his eyes scanning the letter.

“Surgeon, medical… USA?” Pierce looked at Charles with wide eyes, flicking through Potter’s dossier. “This guy’s regular army!”

“Career man,” Charles nodded, confirming what every doctor currently present had worried about for the last four months. “Been through two other wars. O’Reilly says that he’s been on administration for the last two years, that he hasn’t stepped foot in surgery that entire time.”

“Trouble?” Hunnicutt asked, looking concerned.

“He’ll have them bleeding out by the numbers,” Pierce sighed as he threw the letter on Charles’ desk. “He’s gotta be a loser, otherwise why would they dump him in a M*A*S*H*?”

“A career man…” McIntyre sighed, rubbing his eyes. “That’s even worse than Frank, who’s neither one nor the other.”

“Frank Burns is a whole other problem that I don’t want to deal with.” Charles covered his face with his palms, feeling Maxwell rub his back and shoulders with his free hand. “Do you know how many letters he’s written to HQ about me?”

“I’m guessing four?” Hunnicutt asked, looking concerned.

“Try twenty-two.” Charles sighed, pulling open his desk drawer and dropping a stack of mail upon it. “O’Reilly collects them before they can go out. Nearly every single one of these mentions deviant behaviors, gross indecency, and the general unmilitary behavior of this entire unit.” Charles stared at the stack of letters with a wry expression. “And with Potter arriving, I’m sure they will be two peas in a pod.”

The realization made the other doctors groan.

Pierce began to frown even more, then looked worriedly at Charles. “Uh, Chuckles… If Potter is regular army… You’re not gonna be able to share Klinger’s tent anymore.”

Charles’ face paled at the realization. He had been so worried about the efficiency, about bodies piling up in and out of the O.R., of the sheer miserable potential of a career man working alongside Burns, that he hadn’t thought about his own life. 

“ _Damnit_ ,” Charles whispered, and Maxwell gripped his shoulder firmly, reassuringly.

“It’s fine, sir,” Maxwell whispered. “We can figure it out. Besides, we were keeping it under wraps for a while, before Major Burns ruined it all.”

“And Major Burns is likely to report it all straight to Potter when he first gets here.” Hunnicutt finished that thought, sighing as he leaned back and rubbed his jaw contemplatively.

“We gotta keep them separated,” McIntyre said simply. “For as long as we can, at least until we can figure something out. Gonna need some sort of distraction.”

“What about me?” Maxwell tilted his head and the group of Doctors looked up at the Corporal.

“What about you?” Pierce asked, frowning.

“You know what I’m like, but Colonel Potter doesn’t.” Maxwell looked down at Charles. “We put on a little play for the Colonel, make him think that I’m a wacko here trying to get a section 8, I bring back my old scheme and you bring back some of the chilly Boston cold you had when you first got here. We put him off the scent and that at least makes Burns seem more paranoid than anything.”

“I don’t enjoy this idea,” Charles sighed, giving Maxwell’s hand a firm squeeze.

“But it’s all we got so far. Make Colonel Potter think that Burns just has it out for a better doctor than him.” McIntyre shrugged. “We can figure something long term once we get a read on him.”

Charles pursed his lips, fiddling with his pen, before he nodded. “Fine. We’ll play this little farce as long as we can… For what it’s worth.”

* * *

Potter was a short, wiry little man with a stern face and a voice to match. He was certainly no Colonel Blake, who had a heart too big for his body and a clumsiness to match. Every bit of Potter’s countenance was carefully measured and controlled. 

When the officers gathered in the office once more, Father Mulcahy added to their number, the man had their personnel files in front of him, his glasses perched high on his nose as he looked down at the top file.

“Major Frank Burns?” Potter asked, looking at the file. 

“Sir!” Burns stood at attention, saluting the new C.O. with a delighted grin that he couldn’t keep from his face. 

Potter stared at the man with a neutral expression before he read through the man’s file. “Says here you got in some trouble with the C.I.D. a couple of times?”

Frank stuttered, his face pale, “Purely a misunderstanding.”

“Ah, that would be Trapper and I,” Pierce said.

“We added a bit of Communist red to color his file once when we had a C.I.D. man here playing spy. We changed it back right after.” Trapper explained with a smirk. 

Potter snorted at that. “I believe you.” He looked down at the file. “Also says here that you used to make a weekly report to H.Q..”

“Not used to, I still do, sir.” Burns nodded frantically. “I believe that the unmilitary behaviour of all of the personnel in this M*A*S*H* is an insult to everything that the Army stands for.”

“Hmm.” Potter seemed less than impressed as he watched Burns before he looked down at the file. “Must be getting lost in the mail.” He closed Burns’ file and handed it to O’Reilly, who held it in his arms to keep his hands from shaking with nervousness about the new Colonel. “Major Margaret Houlihan.”

“Sir.” Houlihan straightened. 

“Chief Nurse.” Potter hummed, his eyes scanning over her file. 

Houlihan nodded, glancing at Charles and Pierce worriedly before she answered, “Yes, sir.”

Potter finished reading the file and handed it to O’Reilly. “Ten years, spotless record.”

Houlihan’s shoulders dropped, her nervousness leaking away as she smiled at Potter. “Thank you, sir.”

“Calm down, girly, this isn’t a firing squad.” Potter gave a good-natured smile as he picked up the next file. “Captain B.J. Hunnicutt.”

“Hello, sir.” Hunnicutt nodded, his hands folded behind his back. 

“You’re fresh here, haven’t even seen your first big deluge, have you?” Potter looked at Hunnicutt with something of an assessing gaze, as if he was trying to get the measure of the man by reading the lines in his face.

Hunnicutt shook his head as he met Potter’s gaze, a much braver man than Charles would have been when he first arrived. “No, I haven’t, the longest I’ve been up in surgery at once was about six hours.”

“Brace yourself.” Potter said as he handed O’Reilly the file. “You have some fine doctors here, lean on them if you need to.” Potter opened two new files at once. “And that brings us to Captain John McIntyre.” 

“Present.” McIntyre called, not even bothering to salute. 

“Uh huh… And uh… Captain Pierce?”

“Yo.” Pierce hooted, standing up on his toes before settling back down.

“Keep your yos to yourself.” Potter murmured, flicking through their files. “You two are quite the package deal. It says here that your most recent escapade was that you set fire to the latrine and were reprimanded by Major Winchester?”

“It was an accident, sir.” McIntyre said, feigning a demure apology. “We were having a weenie roast.”

Pierce bowed his head as well. “Forgive us, Colonel, we’re draftees.”

Potter stared at the two, clearly unamused and not charmed by his more colourful surgeons. “… I gather you two drink?”

“Only to excess.” Pierce said simply.

Potter shook his head and sighed, picking up the next file. “Father John P. Mulcahy? Hmmm.. You’re clean, no surprise there.” He looked up at the priest. “Catholic?”

“Yes, sir.” Father Mulcahy smiled. 

Potter leaned closer, lowering his voice just a bit, perhaps thinking that there were enlisted men outside that might eavesdrop. “Can you do a Methodist thing for me on Sundays?”

Mulcahy smiled that good-natured smile that clearly was already winning over the new Colonel. “I handle all denominations, Colonel.”

“Any other Methodists in the camp?”

Mulcahy seemed to think about it. “Well, two or three.”

Potter nodded, closing the file, “Good, I hate to sing alone.” He lifted the very last one and looked straight at Charles. “Major Charles Emerson Winchester… III?”

“Yes, sir.” Charles nodded, looking down at the other man who was levelling him with a calculating gaze.

“Don’t let the third fool you,” Pierce said. “The original and sequel were no good, as far as we’re concerned the third was the only good version.”

“Pierce,” Charles whispered to the man. “Don’t help me.”

Potter gave Pierce and Charles a leveling look before he read through the file a bit more. “You were in command after Henry Blake’s discharge and subsequent death, I gather?”

“Yes, sir.” Charles nodded, feeling sweat gather between his shoulder blades with how nervous he was.

Potter looked at Burns, then Charles, “Why you and not Major Burns? He had been with this unit longer.”

Charles tried to keep his expression polite, but his lip still twitched in annoyance at the very idea of Burns being in charge. “I believe that it was a choice between a doctor used to managing a hospital department, and a doctor that was running a small practice of just himself, a nurse, and a receptionist.” He refrained from disparaging Burns’ character in front of the new C.O., as much as the action pained him. “Colonel Blake felt like my skills would better suit this unit while we waited for a new commanding officer.”

Potter let the file drop as he looked up at Charles, “According to this you had been reprimanded for punching Major Burns in the eye?”

“Yes, sir.” Charles nodded. “He slapped me with a rubber glove, and I retaliated.”

“I see…” Potter closed the file. “Colourful officers, I must say, and that is not something that I need. So I would appreciate it that, if for the next eighteen months, you all could fly straight and keep your noses clean. O’Reilly?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll get everyone set up for assembly.” O’Reilly left the office, only for his voice to shout from outside, “Klinger, _no_!”

Everyone turned as Maxwell came barging in, wearing his long, shimmering gold dress, tiara, and dripping with his fake pearls. “Colonel Potter, sir. Corporal Klinger.” He gave a broad grin as he saluted the new commanding officer. “I’m section 8, head to toe. I’m wearing a Warner bra, I play with dolls, my last wish is to be buried in my mother’s wedding gown.”

“Oh here we go!” Burns groaned, glaring at Maxwell, who kicked him with his heeled shoe.

“I’m _nuts_! I should be out!”

Potter stood, returned Maxwell’s salute and then said, firmly. “Horse hockey.” Everyone turned to stare at the man. “I’ve seen these dodges for 40 years, all the tricks. Knew a private that pretended he was a mare, carried a colt in his arms for weeks. Another fella said he was a daisy, insisted we water him every morning.” Colonel Potter shook his head. “No, no, Corporal, it ain’t gonna go with me, now you get out of that froufrou and into a uniform and you _stay_ in uniform. _Dismissed_!” He barked, pointing to the door.

Maxwell froze and then cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.” He said, meekly, and Charles had the horrible, sinking feeling that this plan of theirs had backfired horribly.

“Choppers!” O’Reilly shouted as he opened the door to the office. 

Potter was about to say something, probably along the lines of not hearing anything, when his officers and servicemen left the office quickly, headed straight for the scrub room. When the man arrived a few precious seconds after the others he watched as Maxwell assisted Houlihan in getting the doctors’ masks tied on, helping them scrub and put their belongings in the safe. 

“How many, Radar?”

“A bunch.” Was all O’Reilly said as he looked at the group. “What do you want for dinner, you’re gonna be in there through it.”

“Hamburgers!” Hunnicutt shouted before anyone else could answer, and O’Reilly wrote it down.

“Klinger, finish getting Major Winchester scrubbed, then go alert the corpsmen, they might be pulling nursing duties if we’re her for more than twelve hours.” Major Houlihan said firmly, finishing tying Pierce’s mask.

“I’ll get some volunteers.” Maxwell nodded. “I’ll get some blood donations going as well, Radar, who all has the rarer bloods, we can get them before they go on duty.”

“Good thinking, Klinger,” Houlihan smiled behind her own mask at him.

“I’ll be back before you can say “Gee, Ma, I wanna go home”.” Maxwell called as he left in a flurry of gold and pearls, leaving a confused Potter in his wake.

“What was all that about?”

“Margaret might be head nurse,” Hunnicutt said. “But from what I’ve seen, Klinger is head corpsman.”

* * *

Charles sat in the scrub room, his head resting upon the wall behind the low wooden bench, his long legs stretched out as far as he could as he just breathed and rested. It was a short day as far as M*A*S*H* time went, 22 hours in surgery, keeping a weather eye on Colonel Potter.

Then man was a deft hand with a scalpel and hadn’t slipped up once. Muscle memory, most likely, like riding a bicycle after some time away. He had even helped Hunnicutt when the man had fumbled, the speed of the other doctors making him nervous. Charles knew that feeling, and he sympathized. 

Potter had also gone with the other Swamp rats to have a night cap, drinking gin from the still, and Pierce had promised Charles that he’d speak to the man about Maxwell’s dresses. 

That was an hour ago. 

“Come on, Major baby.” Maxwell murmured, and Charles blinked at the sight of the young man suddenly materialized before him, like a mirage shimmering to life. “Let’s get you a shower, a shave, then to bed.”

“You don’t have to help me with that, Corporal darling,” Charles whispered back, despite no one else being anywhere nearby. There was a calm silence in the scrub room, and Charles knew that everyone else was likely exhausted, collapsed where ever they had ended up by the end of the long surgical hours. 

“I want to.” Maxwell smiled, his firm, strong fingers gripping Charles’ arm, holding him up as he led him stumbling to the showers. 

Maxwell was a deft hand at scrubbing down patients, and Charles allowed himself to be bathed with that same efficiency, Maxwell offering a kiss to Charles’ mouth at the end to signal he had finished, helping Charles into his pajamas, bath robe, and a clean set of boots that most certainly were not Charles’ own blood-soaked standard issue boots.

“Stole them from Major Burns. He’s sleeping with Major Houlihan tonight.”

“Good idea,” Charles chuckled, allowing himself to be led to the Swamp. 

Before Potter, Charles had practically moved in with Maxwell, sleeping in his cot and going to the Swamp only for things he had left behind. Now, though, he would have to maintain the facade, and an officer sharing quarters with an NCO was bound to draw the Colonel’s attention. So they tip toed into the Swamp, watching the drunken men snore through their alcohol haze, Colonel Potter’s chin tucked to his chest as he sat wearing his calvary hat and a thick, army-green sweater that was certainly not army issue. 

“You just sleep, Major.” Maxwell whispered, tucking Charles in and kissing his lips again, his body blocking off the kiss from the rest of the tent. “I’ll bring you something nice in the morning.”

Charles’ hand lifted to softly cup Charles’ waist through his blue housecoat, and he smiled up at Maxwell, soft and warm as he whispered, “I love you, darling.”

“I love you too, baby.” An echoing smile on dark lips. “Goodnight.”

Maxwell left and Charles sighed, rubbing his face before he looked towards the rest of the tent. 

Colonel Potter’s eyes were open and he watched the Major silently for a long moment, Charles feeling his heart leap into his throat. When the man lifted his empty martini glass into a toast, Charles smiled back and nodded, letting his own eyes close in rest.

* * *

“You ran this place well, Major Winchester.” Potter said, staring at the various reports, the forms that Charles felt as if had been his ceaseless task for the last four months to fill out. “I’m surprised they didn’t promote you.”

Charles blinked at the other man before he cleared his throat to speak, but nothing came out, he couldn’t find the words. Usually they were his best weapon, his protection against the prying curiosity of others, but now they failed him.

“I saw you with Corporal Klinger last night.” Potter said simply, placing the file down. “That got any reason why they won’t promote you?”

“All the reason and more.” Charles said simply. “Even if they have no concrete evidence of anything inappropriate… The fact that I defend him is enough.”

Potter sat at his desk, his elbows resting upon the surface as he observed Charles quietly. “Nothing inappropriate _is_ going on? The Corporal is a kid. You’re a good bit older than him.”

“He’s made it clear that I might never be rid of him. Not that I would ever attempt such a thing.” Charles smiled slightly, before he composed his expression. 

“And I take it that part of that was the reason you belted Major Burns?”

“Part of it.” Charles said with a shrug. “The other part is that he involved himself in an argument I had with Major Houlihan. We have since resolved that argument and said our apologies, but you wouldn’t know it from the way Major Burns behaves.”

“Look, Winchester,” Potter folded his hands on the desk. “You tell me if this is going to be a problem, and I’ll have to transfer someone. It might not be Burns. I can’t have my doctors punching out each other over love affairs.”

“I promise not to have such a physical conflict with Major Burns again. I cannot promise verbal lashings will cease.”

“Just so long as it doesn’t get physical.” Potter shook his head. 

“Sir!” Charles turned and smiled at the sight of Maxwell entering, wearing a thick grey wool skirt and a white flannel blouse with ruffles all down the front. “I found your bridle! It was in with the trusses.”

“Good man, Corporal.” Potter said, and Maxwell smiled, giving a smart salute. “Oh, and, Klinger?”

“Yes, sir?” Maxwell turned and Charles waited, curious to see what Potter would say to the man.

Potter smiled, “I like that dress, it suits you.” 

“You do, sir?” Maxwell brightened, smiling broadly at the man. “I worry that it’s a bit drab.”

“Could use some good earrings to brighten it up, but it’s smart stuff.” Potter nodded, smiling at Maxwell as Charles smiled even more. 

He still wasn’t quite sure about Colonel Potter, but if this was his true nature… Perhaps the M*A*S*H* would be more livable with a C.O. that couldn’t be bent to the will of Major Burns.


	28. Bottom's Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierce humiliates Charles in the O.R. and goes a bit too far.

There was something that was particularly nerve-wracking and hellish about a long quiet and then a sudden deluge. It played on human nerves in a strange way. Colonel Potter’s temper became shorter, his words clipped and his reassuring platitudes dried up. Burns became hysterical, trembling and fouling up more and more until he would have to be removed for rest. McIntyre’s anger at his situation became more apparent, his eyes narrowed as he ripped out bits of shrapnel with no care for delicacy or gentleness, knowing that he’d have to repair it one way or another. Hunnicutt proved to be more and more morose as the hours whittled away what was left of his sanity, his aching for his wife and daughter more apparent the more silent he became. 

Pierce, however, acted out in other ways, childish ones that often he used to make the others smile or laugh, anything to relieve the building tension. From his best Groucho Marx impression to singing one-man duets to making raucous comments about any and everyone.

Charles knew that it wasn’t Pierce’s fault, or anything malicious, but it still annoyed him on a good day.

“We got two chest wounds just came in, hot off the chopper!”

“Chest wounds?” Maxwell looked up from where he was refilling the blood cooler, frowning. “We just made it through the last wounded.”

Two men were brought in and Charles gestured to the corpsmen carrying them. “One here, Pierce can take the other.” Charles said,turning to Kellye. “I need to reglove, Kellye.”

“Yes, Doctor.” She gathered up a pair of gloves just as Pierce came up behind Charles. 

“Hey, Chuckles, buns away!” He pulled the tie to Charles’ surgical scrubs, the loose fabric falling down to Charles’ ankles.

“Pierce, are you _derranged_ , I have a wounded man on this table!” Charles’ face was red as he shouted at Pierce, panic making his heart pound. If Pierce had finally lost it, likely he was next. 

The boy on the table flinched and sat up, entirely fine, and cleared his throat. “H-he made me do it.” The boy said before he raced out of the surgical suite, Pierce still howling with laughter on the other side of the room.

“Pierce, there’s a fine line between fun and imbecility.” Potter called over from where he was removing his gloves, Houlihan finishing up a pressure dressing as they looked at Pierce. “And you just pole-vaulted over it.”

Mortification and panic now passed, Charles fell back on his old friend: fury.

“Pierce!” He shouted, his pants now pulled up and retied as he stomped over to the other man. “To violate the sanctity of the operating room is, even for an intellectual infant such as yourself, an act of such contemptibility that I will not dignify it with comment!”

Charles stormed out of the O.R., grabbing his clothing from the scrub room as he made his way to Maxwell’s tent. It was a few minutes before the younger man arrived, Charles already changed into his fatigues and laying on Maxwell’s cot with a scowl. 

“If it makes you feel any better, Major Houlihan and Colonel Potter tore Pierce a new one.” Maxwell perched on the edge of the cot and smiled. “And when Major Burns was the only one to laugh at the prank, Pierce’s smile was gone.”

“It’s not the fact that he pranked me at all,” Charles sighed. “I’m used to it, even enjoy the childishness and the ability to, ah, get back at him… It’s that he did it in O.R..”

“I know,” Maxwell leaned over, resting his head on Charles’ chest gently. “If it helps, McIntyre was _very_ impressed. Said you should be the one called “Big John” not him.”

Charles couldn’t help but laugh. “I doubt he said that, but I thank you for your compliment.”

Maxwell smiled into Charles’ chest. “So what are you going to do, hmm?”

“I was thinking of letting him stew, waiting for a retaliation that never comes.” Charles said with a smirk, kissing Maxwell’s forehead gently. “But what has your devilish little mind come up with?”

“I dunno, I’m too tired.” Maxwell yawned and cuddled closer to Charles. “And I don’t think anyone will blame you for not sleeping in the Swamp for one night?” Maxwell, kissed Charles’ lips gently, coaxing the man into giving him more of the soft touches that they both seemed to live off of more than the food from the mess tent. 

“Agreed.” Charles carefully rolled onto his side, Maxwell tucking up against him. Neither of them felt like changing out of their clothes, so they simply tangled their limbs together, pulled the blankets up, and fell asleep.

* * *

“Captain Pierce says he wants to talk to you outside the Officer’s club.” Maxwell said as he got dressed for his shift manning said club. Charles would never stop being amazed at the sheer number of hats Maxwell wore for the 4077th. After the previous day’s grueling work in the O.R., where he played corpsmen, nurse, and phlebotomist all in the space of an hour each, he now got dressed in a pink sheath dress with ruffles in order to serve drinks to the members of the 4077th just as easily as he had passed vials of blood. 

“What for?” Charles asked wearily as he sat up, running a hand through what was left of his hair. It was thinning, again, stress would do that to you, and he had begun to lose what little padding about his middle he had had at his first arrival in Korea. Maxwell had already taken in one uniform’s pants to the point where Charles had surrendered and just gotten a new pair in a size smaller, and now it looked as if this set was starting to go the same way. 

“I think he said he wanted to apologize.” Maxwell dabbed on some lipstick, a tasteful nude shade that Charles always liked on him, and Maxwell smiled over at Charles. “You should let him at least apologize. It’ll make him squirm enough to really feel sorry.”

Charles smiled and nodded. “Very well. Let me just freshen up, then you’ll see me at the Officer’s club, accepting Pierce’s apology.”

Maxwell leaned in, gave Charles a firm kiss on the lips, leaving a lipstick stain behind, and waved his hand as he left the tent.

Charles luxuriated through his shower, shaving and general grooming took much longer than usual when he decided to enjoy the hot water for once. He changed into clean fatigues and made sure to dump the remaining cream from his shave in Burns’ bed as he left the blessedly empty Swamp. 

Burns was in O.R., malpracticing away, McIntyre was in post-op, and when he approached the club, Charles could see Pierce and Hunnicutt waiting for him.

“Pierce, Hunnicutt.” Charles greeted, scowling at them. “You wanted to see me, Pierce?”

“Charles! Indeed I do.” Pierce smiled that winning grin that he always wore and Charles could already feel a sigh coming on.

“Well?” He asked, raising a brow at the other man. 

“I behaved very badly toward you in O.R..”

Charles laughed, wry and derisive, at the man. “Oh, Pierce, Pierce, _Pierce_. You are far too modest.” He slid his hands into his pockets and scowled. “Your behaviour was disgusting and reprehensible.”

“Even worse!” Pierce rested a hand on Charles’ shoulder. “I’d like to make amends. Really.” He gestured to the club. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Oh!” Charles laughed, smirking at the other man. “The rogue attempts to assuage his conscience!” His grin became a bit more genuine. “And it will cost him money! That’s wonderful, yes, I accept.”

They entered the Officer’s club and Maxwell smiled at them, a hand on his hip. Pierce stepped forward with a chagrined look at the Corporal. “Table for three, fella.”

“And the tab is on Pierce tonight,” Hunnicutt said. “He’s the lanky gentleman with the egg on his face.”

“Uh-huh.” Maxwell smirked at him. “In that case price of drinks just tripled. Gotta keep up with demand.” 

“Oh, come on, Klinger!”

“Pierce, certainly your atonement is worth the extra price of a drink, or six?” Charles asked with a smirk as Maxwell gestured to the last empty table in the corner. 

“Okay, alright, alright.” Pierce huffed, glaring at him briefly. “Okay, BJ, you sit there, and uh, no! No, no, uh, why don’t you sit over here, Charles?” Pierce’s sudden panic made Charles scowl with suspicion. 

“Why?”

Pierce’s eyes went wide. “Huh?”

“What possible difference could it make where I sit?”

“Because, uh, well, you know everyone’s been a bit of an angry mob since the uh… Pantsing.” Pierce said simply, smiling up at Charles as he practically pulled the man away from the chair. “Gotta sit with my back to a wall now!”

“Understandable,” Charles sat down in this new chair, snorting as he looked at Pierce. “The survival instinct is very strong in the lower species.”

Pierce sat down and his made a faux surprised expression that set Charles’ teeth on edge. “Oh… My… What has happened? I’m-” He stood and his face paled even more. “… Not… Stuck in my chair.”

“Oh, uh…” Charles’ eyes flickered and then widened for a moment. “I suddenly feel as if there is something very wrong here…” He shifted a leg. “… More precisely down there.”

“No… _no_!” Pierce groaned. 

“Oh my scheming friend… Now I understand why you so carefully ushered me into _this_ chair.” Charles growled.

“Hawk, I don’t believe you, enough is enough!” Hunnicutt said, acting as if he had not known, but Charles could see the curl of his lip as he attempted to refrain from smiling.

“Charles, you have to believe me, there’s been a mistake!” Pierce said, trying to keep the conversation from escalating into shouts over the music.

“Oh, there has been, and it is my mistake, honestly!” Charles’ voice rose as he glared at Pierce. “For believing for the briefest moment that you were actually a civilized human being!”

Charles stood, the chair glued to his pants, and walked as quickly as he could to the bar, with everyone in the club looking sympathetically at him, and accusingly at Pierce. “Max!” He shouted, catching his lover’s attention. The other man came over in a swish of his skirt and a click of heels. 

“Major, what happened?” He asked, staring at the man and then at Pierce, his own eyes narrowing. 

“Get me a knife,” Charles growled.

“Major! It’s not worth it! Think of your Hippocratic oath!” Maxwell gripped Charles’ shoulders, trying to force him to sit down.

“For my _pants_ , Maxwell.”

“Oh, of course, Major baby.” Maxwell knelt down and grinned up at Charles, who flushed only slightly when Maxwell pulled out his trusty pocket knife from his purse. “Hold this.” He ordered, handing Charles his purse. 

“Oh _really_ , Pierce!” Houlihan shouted, glaring at the two men still seated at the table. 

“Margaret, please, save your reprimanding. The poor man is clearly demented if he wishes to make me the butt of his joke two days in a row.” Charles undid his belt while Maxwell knelt to start cutting at his pants, working up the ankles slowly. “Maxwell, please be _careful_!” Charles’ voice went up a bit as Maxwell got closer to his groin, the younger man giving a smug smirk. Charles stood once Maxwell had managed to cut the pants away, quick and nimble fingers making fine work of the cheap fabric, and when he stood in his underwear he sighed, turning to glare at Pierce silently before he strode out of the club.

As he opened the door he could hear Maxwell’s own voice rising in anger. “Captain Pierce, I’m gonna tell you this once, there’s only one person in this entire camp that gets to mess around with Major Winchester’s pants and that’s _me_ , so lay off it, wouldja?” With the accompanying clatter of a beer bottle being thrown at the Captain’s head.

* * *

“Hey, uh… Chuckles?”

Charles sighed as he placed his bookmark, looking up from where he sat, elbow resting upon Maxwell’s vanity as he read, waiting for the other man to return from his K.P. shift.

“Pierce,” He sighed, standing up and undoing his belt. “Here, let me preempt your ridiculousness.” He let his pants drop about his ankles then sat back down, opening his book. “Now if you could _please_ just leave me in peace.”

“Look, Charles, okay, lemme just give you a show of good faith.” Pierce let his own pants drop. 

And there they both were, standing together with their pants about their ankles in the midst of the Klinger Collection when Maxwell opened the door.

“… Captain Pierce, I hope that you know that I haven’t taken a Hippocratic oath, so I would have no problem cutting off something I _know_ you’d miss.” Maxwell slammed the door closed and Pierce scrambled back, holding up his hands to the other man.

“No, no, no, Max, Charles, come on, you both know me, come on!” He stumbled and fell onto Maxwell’s bed. “Listen, all I want is a brief conversation about your enemy and mine, one B.J. Hunnicutt!”

“What?” Maxwell asked as he was lifted into Charles’ lap, draping his skirts over the doctor’s bare knees in an attempt at modesty.

“The man with two faces! With a forked tongue in each!”

“What’s he done?” Charles asked with a scowl.

“Everything!” Pierce shouted, throwing up his hands. “I was supposed to sit in that glue at the Officer’s Club, only he arranged it so that the chairs would be switched and you’d get it again!”

“Uh-huh,” Charles snorted, his hands folded over Maxwell’s lap, his chin resting upon the smaller man’s shoulder. “You expect me to _believe_ that, Pierce?”

“It was B.J.’s idea that you go bareback in the O.R. too!”

“Truly, this sounds like the ravings of a lunatic.”

“I dunno, Major…” Maxwell squinted at Pierce. “I’ve heard a lot of bullshit in my life… Sounds like he’s telling the truth.”

“Because I am!” Pierce said. “Our own clean-cut, adorable, soft-spoken B.J. is a perverse _genius_!”

“… Who knew?” Maxwell asked, looking at Charles. “I mean… He’s only been here a few weeks. Maybe he snapped?”

“Or his horns couldn’t hold up his halo anymore.” Pierce said simply. “He maginificently orchestrated things so that you’d be humiliated, I’d get blamed, and he’d get his jollies!”

“My word…” Charles couldn’t help the smile that crept across his lips at that. “Machiavelli would have been proud.”

“But that’s why I’ve come to you two!” Pierce said simply. “Remember, the saying is: He who lives by the joke shall die by the joke.”

Charles and Maxwell looked at one another before they shared a silent smirk and looked at Pierce.

“Alright, Captain Pierce,” Maxwell grinned. “We’re listening.”

* * *

It took all three of them and the help of some very obliging nurses for them to get Hunnicutt moved, cot an all, into the Nurse’s tent. Then all it took was time to wait, sitting in Maxwell’s tent with the door open to get a good view for when the other man would come stumbling out. 

“So, Max, can I call you Max?” Pierce asked, grinning drunkenly at Maxwell.

“No, Captain Pierce, Klinger is the best you can get.” Maxwell said simply, sipping at his own plum wine that Charles had ordered from Tokyo for him. He was sitting in Charles’ lap again, dressed in a silk robe with curlers and a hairnet on, Charles’ arm latched around his waist the only thing that kept him from tumbling off the bed onto the floor.

“You - you know I never thought could get that jealous!” Pierce giggled and grinned even more, nearly falling out of the chair perched at Maxwell’s vanity. “But seeing you earlier, with my pants down and Chuckles’ pants down. You looked like you were gonna do some unspeakable things to me.”

“I was, Captain Pierce,” Maxwell slurred, grinning as he snuggled into Charles’ neck. “You can’t blame me, you know! You’ve been obsessed with getting my man out of his pants!”

“Come on, Klinger, you gotta - you gotta tell me.” Pierce took another drink of his beaker full of gin that he had taken out of the Swamp. “What do you see in ol’ Size 42 Pompous?”

Maxwell fell silent for a moment, drunkenly staring off into space before he spoke. “Well…”

“That’s a long pause for one word, Chuckles, doesn’t bode well for you.”

“Shut up, the words are spinning, I gotta catch them.” Maxwell grumbled, kicking out towards Pierce with his bare foot, Charles smiling as he kissed Maxwell’s neck gently. “I gotta say, it was the eyes that first got me.”

“Eyes?”

“Yeah. You got nice eyes, Captain, but the Major… I dunno, when he looked at me it was like he was trying to figure me out. Then later he started to admire me, not that you’d hear him admit it.” Maxwell grinned and leaned close, Charles listening intently as he stared at Maxwell, curious about his answer. “And then I found out he got a heart as big as an elephant’s.” Maxwell giggled and kissed Charles. “You weren’t there in Tokyo, but when… When we went to get Colonel Blake back? He coulda tried all sorts of stuff to get him back… And he talked about… About standards, about kindness to the men.” Maxwell smiled. “And then the bomb that got dropped? He went and risked his life to disarm it, all because you would have left your father behind.” 

Pierce blinked at that, then looked up at Charles. “You… You did?”

“My sister is well taken care of,” Charles said simply, slurring his words slightly. “Your father is a widower, is he not? Never remarried? And your sister is in his care?”

“Well, yeah…” Pierce stared at Charles, his jaw going slightly slack. “But still…”

“Back then I didn’t think I had Maxwell,” Charles shrugged, resting his cheek upon Maxwell’s head, the younger man cuddling closer, tucking his own nose to Charles’ throat. “Burns and McIntyre have children, as well as Colonel Blake. I was the… Logical choice.” 

Maxwell smiled and kissed Charles’ throat, cuddling closer to him as Pierce watched them with a slightly crooked grin. “You know… I always thought that the money was the biggest appeal. That Chuckles here might be able to buy you both out of the Army and you’d run off to become a merry widow after the war.” Pierce took another swallow of his gin. “But that’s not it, is it?”

“Nope,” Maxwell smiled, clinging to Charles, his eyes dark and glittering as they looked up, Charles smiling down at Maxwell fondly. “Just… A whole lotta things no one else seemed to notice.”


	29. Soldier of the Month

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maxwell wants to win Soldier of the Month for the prize of two passes to Tokyo, and Charles delights in his Corporal's desire to see after him.

“Maxwell, _what_ are you wearing?” Charles asked, staring at the other man as he came stumbling into post-op, clutching his hand tightly.

“Nevermind that, Charles!” Maxwell said, scowling as he held up his bruised fingers. “Major Burns press-ganged me into helping him set out rat traps and my finger got trapped!”

Charles blinked at the other man before he gathered his hand gently in his own, looking over the digits, taking his time so that he could take in the sight of Maxwell in a dress uniform.

The khaki uniform was perfectly pressed, creases in all the right places, his tie tucked properly in so that the tail wouldn’t trail down and get caught. He was even wearing, as far as Charles could tell, actual boxers beneath it all. His knuckles were bruised and some skin had split from the rat trap snapping on the young man’s knuckles, but nothing too pressing. 

“Come along, Corporal, let’s get these cleaned up.” Charles said simply, guiding Maxwell to sit down at the Doctor’s desk at the back of post-op. He collected some hydrogen peroxide and cotton swabs, using them to disinfect the wound carefully. “That still doesn’t explain your current costume.”

“Major Burns is hosting the soldier of the month competition, Major.” Maxwell hissed at the sting and Charles gave a soft shush as he continued to clean. “And one of the things you gotta do is dress like a proper soldier.”

“I see. And what prize is being given to drive you to such lengths?” Charles raised a brow down at Maxwell, who flinched when Charles smeared antibacterial ointment on the split skin, binding them tightly with thin strips of bandages. 

“Two three day passes to Tokyo. The soldier of the month and a guest.”

“Ah, I see,” Charles smiled. “Maxwell, you don’t have to do this competition, I-”

“But I do!” Maxwell said, cutting Charles off as he stood up sharply. “Look, Major, I might go actually section 8 if I have to spend another week here without some sort of break! I am gonna get those two passes to Tokyo and take you on a nice romantic getaway that you won’t have to bargain and haggle for with Colonel Potter!”

“Yes, but-”

“You just watch, Major.” Maxwell stomped his foot on the ground, glaring at Charles. “I’m gonna win that competition!”

Charles smiled at the other man, giving his hand a brief, gentle kiss. “Go forth, Corporal darling, just make sure to stay away from Major Burns for now.”

* * *

Honoria had long ago taught Charles that fashion was not simply how expensive something was. It was how well thought out an outfit was, the details that drew the eye, the way that colours played against one another. It was what made Maxwell’s nigh-endless collection of hand made dresses such a treat to behold. Everything from Zeigfield Follies barely decent costumes to Lauren Bacall’s more subdued style filled Maxwell’s tent in a riot of colours and styles. Some outfits had been ripped apart at the seams, the fabric recycled into new creations, but Maxwell’s favourites (and Charles’ also) were always lovingly hung up on the rack shoved against the back wall of Maxwell’s tent. 

Charles knew from mere observation the strange formula that Maxwell had for his outfits, and was quick to carefully pack some that would be suitable for a trip to Tokyo, folding them carefully into Maxwell’s bag, going through the tray that he used to hold his jewelry and other accessories when Maxwell returned with a huff from the official quiz for the soldier of the month contest.

“Did you win, darling?” Charles asked, smiling at the young man, who scowled and ripped off his tie, undoing his shirt quickly.

“No. I wore Army regulation boxers for no reason at all!” Maxwell said, throwing his uniform into some corner to be forgotten until he needed it. 

“Darling, I could have told you that you didn’t need to dress up in Army issue frockery at all.” Charles reached into his breast pocket, producing two passes to Tokyo. “Because Colonel Potter already gave me these.”

Maxwell’s eyes widened and he gave Charles’ shoulder a light smack. “And you let me think that I had to do the soldier of the month spiel to get those passes!”

“I did try to tell you, but you were so adorably wound up,” Charles chuckled and handed the passes over. “Three days in Tokyo, and all we have to do for one day is collect a microscope for the lab, something that we can easily acquire at Tokyo General.”

Maxwell lit up, snatching the passes to read the dates. “This is for this weekend!”

“Of course,” Charles smiled, his fingers brushing over Maxwell’s jaw.

“We might run into Radar, though…” Maxwell looked worriedly up at Charles, tilting his head at the guidance of the other man’s finger.

“Oh, I’m sure that we can find a way to avoid him, if you’d like.” Charles drew Maxwell close, feeling the smooth skin of his naked waist. With a recent lice outbreak Maxwell had shaven his entire body save his hair yet again and it left his skin feeling silken smooth, his arms draped over Charles’ shoulders as they shared a few slow kisses. “Now. I have you packed up for the trip.” Charles murmured against Maxwell’s lips. “And in two days we will be in Tokyo.”

Maxwell grinned up at Charles, kissing the older man slowly, his fingers tracing over Charles’ jaw, his shoulders, down to his waist. Maxwell paused, pulling back to look down and frown. “Another pants size?” He asked softly, looking up at Charles. “Your belt is on the last hole.”

“I’ll buy a new one in Tokyo.” Charles murmured against Maxwell’s jaw, nibbling at the lobe of his ear gently, trying to get Maxwell’s hands away from his waist. He had noticed the drop in weight. He would never be a svelte, muscular specimen of a man, but the Army had made him lose most of the weight he had gained from good living back in Boston. 

“You’ve lost a lot of weight lately,” Maxwell looked up at him, concern colouring his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

“Just the Army.” Charles pulled back, gently stroking over Maxwell’s bare back gently. “I promise.”

“Not the dexies?” Maxwell asked softly, looking up at Charles. 

“What?” Charles pulled back, searching the younger man’s expression. “What brought this up?”

“Just…” Maxwell wrung the hem of Charles’ shirt between his fingers, looking up at Charles nervously. “Colonel Potter gave a talk on alcohol abuse last week.”

“I heard, it started riots, quite literally.” Charles stroked over Maxwell’s waist. “That was last week, darling, have you been worrying about this for that long?”

“I don’t know, it just… I talked to Pierce after you first dried out, and we got you through the withdrawl. I asked him about it, about symptoms, and he said that sudden weight loss was one of the signs.” Maxwell’s words came fast, as if he might choke on them if he held them in, if he didn’t get them out as fast as he could. 

It took a few long moments to process the young man’s words, his fear, and Charles breathed deeply. “Maxwell, I promise you, on my honor, on my Hippocratic oath, that I haven’t touched the dexies since I crawled out of the pill bottle.” Charles rubbed his thumbs over Maxwell’s knuckles, snagging gently on the ones he had bandaged just the day before. 

“You’d tell me if you were, right?” Maxwell asked, his eyes fixed on Charles’ firmly. “I hated seeing you like that. It was awful, worse than bodies in the O.R., worse than driving to Seoul and having to go past soldiers left behind, worse than anything I’ve ever seen.” 

Charles held Maxwell close, kissing his forehead gently. “Darling, I did not know that was how you felt… That it affected you so.”

“Just… Promise me, Major.” Maxwell looked up at him. “I promise that I will be right by your side. Can’t promise I won’t be angry, but I’ll be right there.”

Charles smiled, kissed Maxwell gently, and cradled him close. “I promise, darling.”

Maxwell cuddled close to the man, tilting his head for more warm kisses, and Charles couldn’t help but feel… Relieved that Maxwell cared so much to worry about him in such a way. It would normally sting to have his flaws pointed out, but this… This gentle warmth and reassurance, the desire to care for him just as Charles cared for Maxwell in kind, was something that Charles couldn’t help but cherish softly in the warm crevices of his chest. 

“I adore you, Maxwell,” Charles whispered into the younger man’s lips. “How did I ever get so lucky?”

“Not like you won me in a poker game, Charles.” Maxwell laughed softly. “As I recall, you had to work for me.”

* * *

Tokyo was absolutely the prescription for all ills during this war. 

After the second bottle of sake Charles and Maxwell were drunk enough that stumbling through the streets arm in arm sounded like an excellent idea. They avoided the main roads, Maxwell dragging Charles through the alleyways, his billowing silk skirt lapping at his calves as he turned, looking over his shoulder at Charles even as he continued his clipped pace. 

“I got a surprise for you, Major!” Maxwell laughed, and Charles’ eyes lingered on Maxwell’s bare shoulders and collarbone, his entire body seemingly lit up from the glow of the alcohol, the street lamps, and Charles’ love. 

Charles leaned close, captured Maxwell’s corseted waist in his arm, drawing him close so that he could kiss and bite at Maxwell’s neck where he wore a heavy paste gem necklace, the jewels imitating a beautiful diamond necklace, matching the diamond earrings that Maxwell wore. “You’re all the surprise I need, my starlet.” Charles growled, and Maxwell laughed, squirming in the man’s grip.

“Come on, Major baby, I gotta do _something_ nice for you!” Maxwell managed to escape his grip, but Charles merely grinned and chased after him, the two of them stumbling through the dark alleyway. 

“There are a great deal many things you can do for me, Corporal, some of which you can do for me right here, right now.”

“Major!” Maxwell laughed, drunkenly stumbling on his heels. 

Charles’ fingers gripped the younger man tightly, dragging him close, their bodies turning in a clumsy dance before Charles pinned Maxwell to the wall of the alley, staring down at him. They panted and laughed, Maxwell’s head tilted back as he looked up at Charles, glittering golden eyeshadow framed by the smooth eyeliner made his dark eyes seem even more deep, like Charles could see to the center of the earth in those eyes. Maxwell’s lips were painted a deep red to match his dress, his lips parted warm and soft as he stared at Charles, panting and moaning softly into the cool evening air. 

“You’re everything I ever wanted.” Charles murmured, staring at Maxwell. “Everything.”

“And you didn’t want for much, huh?” Maxwell laughed softly, his fingers playing with Charles’ hair, swirling along the base of his neck. “What could the favored son of Boston ever want that you could only get here in Korea?”

“Love.” Charles whispered, staring at Maxwell, staring down at Maxwell. “You. I couldn’t have you in Boston.” His fingers combed through Maxwell’s hair, ruining his carefully curled and styled hairdo, mussing it until he looked suitably debauched. “I hate Korea, I hate this war, but it all brought me you, the greatest gift I could ever receive in the prettiest wrappings imaginable.”

Maxwell smiled up at the man, his fingers tangling in Charles’ navy blue dinner jacket, drawing the man close. “You know, you took my virginity, made me leave my girl back home, got my heart all wrapped around your finger.” Maxwell’s lips brushed over Charles’, purring softly as he whispered. “Any other gal would demand you marry her before we went home so you couldn’t leave this affair behind with whatever else the Army doesn’t care to take.”

Charles smiled as he kissed Maxwell deeply, pulling him close, their hearts pounding against one another.

Perhaps it was drunkeness, from wine from love from the sheer smell and taste and feel of Maxwell in his arms, but it was all that Charles could do to drag Maxwell into the streets of Tokyo, leading him along as an echo of Maxwell’s laughter chased them both down the nearly empty streets.


	30. Mr. and Mrs. Who?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Maxwell can't remember a thing that happened during their leave in Tokyo.

“Oh… My head.” Charles groaned, rubbing at his eyes. “Ah!” He shouted, pulling his hand back when something scraped over his eyelid, catching strangely. He pulled his hand back and squinted up at it. The curtains to the hotel room were drawn clumsily shut, cracked to let a stream of light into the room, catching on the plain golden band on Charles’ left ring finger. “What?” He groaned, attempted to sit up, only for Maxwell to let out a sleepy groan, cuddling closer to Charles and pinning the man effectively to the bed. 

The hotel room was absolutely trashed. A lamp had been knocked off the bedside table, their clothing was scattered across the room, Charles’ blue suit jacket, next to Maxwell’s white wedding gown-

Wedding gown.

Charles sat bolt upright, looking around the room with wide eyes. The wedding gown was a cloud of tulle petticoats and delicate lace left on the floor carelessly, Maxwell’s gold high heels kicked out onto the floor. His red dress that Charles remembered from the night before was nowhere in sight on first inspection, but the edge of it could be seen tucked into a shopping bag next to the door. The mirror hung on the wall was slanted from where they had knocked it askew, there was an empty bottle of champagne and two coupes discarded on the dresser and Charles stared at the tiffany blue lace underwear that was tangled with the bedding, trying to process what had happened but drawing an entire blank.

“Maxwell, darling?” Charles whispered and Maxwell groaned. 

“Charles, I won’t talk to you until you stop screaming.” Maxwell buried his face in Charles’ chest, breathing deeply and kissing the bare skin. 

“Do you remember what happened last night?”

“No. Hawk and Trap say it’s a sign of a good time… Not sure if I agree.” Maxwell sat up, blinking as he looked around the room. Charles stared at the sight of a diamond studded engagement ring and a matching plain wedding band on Maxwell’s ring finger. Charles knew glass and diamond and the difference, and even in his hungover state he could tell that the diamonds were real.

“Maxwell… I think we’ve gone and had a wedding.” Charles said as he sat up in bed. His torso was covered in lipstick marks, matching the bite marks on Maxwell’s own neck and shoulder. 

They both observed the room quietly before Maxwell said, “I just wish I could remember it…”

* * *

“Anything?” Charles asked as they sat in the restaurant that the concierge said they had gone to the night before. Charles had apparently asked for the best sushi that the young girl could reccommend, and she had written them a map of directions.

This time Charles and Maxwell avoided the sake, but they ordered a small feast of the delicious bite-sized delicacies. 

“Still a total blank, Major baby.” Maxwell said with a pout, reaching out to pick up his water, only to hesitate and stare at the rings on his finger. “These real?”

“They are, I looked at them earlier when you were doing your makeup.” Charles cleared his throat. “I’d have slapped myself if I had bought you a glass engagement ring.”

“Maybe we could find the jeweler?” Maxwell asked, smiling at Charles. “They gotta know _something_?”

“Let’s see…” Charles frowned before he waved down their waiter. “Excuse me, my good man, but were you per chance working here last night?”

“Ah, yes!” The man smiled brightly at them. “Major Tipper!”

Maxwell laughed, delighted at the man’s enthusiasm before he asked, “Do you know where we went after this?”

“The Major asked for a bakery, so I gave you directions.” The man gave a bit of an apologetic look. “You were both very drunk and did not take a taxi.”

“Could you point us in the right direction?” Maxwell asked, smiling charmingly up at the waiter. 

“You go up the street, turn right on Showa Dori Ave and then left three streets down and you’ll find the strip, anything you want will be right there.”

“Thank you, good man,” Charles said, pulling out some money and handing it to him. “Keep the change, a tip.”

The man grinned widely and bowed shallowly at them as he cleared their empty plates. “Thank you! Come again please!”

Charles and Maxwell stepped into the street, carefully weaving their way through the crowded street before Maxwell gave a huff and dragged Charles down an alleyway. He paused as he stared at a neon sign lighting up the alley then flushed as he looked at Charles. “I remember _something_ , but I was still wearing my red dress then.”

Charles smiled at Maxwell, drawing him close as they walked through the back alley, trying to retrace their steps. 

“Ah ha!” Maxwell raced ahead, his heels clicking on the pavement, and Charles followed, watching as Maxwell bent to pick up something. “I was wondering where this other earring went!”

Charles looked up at the street sign he couldn’t read, and the two of them peered out into the street. Glittering shops filled with expensive antiques, jewels, beautiful trinkets and baubles and clothing. “I think we found where we got your dress and our rings.” They stepped out into the street, Maxwell linking his elbow with Charles’ once more. 

There were several jewelers on the street, and it took them two hours of asking, fumbling with some Japanese phrases that neither of them was saying correctly before they found the correct jeweler, who scowled at them and grunted out yes and no answers to their questions. 

“Well, he was some help.” Maxwell huffed as they stepped out of the jeweler, looking at his ring. “You know he probably over charged you.”

“A price I am willing to pay,” Charles smiled at Maxwell. “Now… Let’s see if we can find where we got the wedding gown.”

Their search lasted well into the evening and still they could not find the shop that had sold them the gown. Returning to the hotel they found that it had been set to rights by the cleaning staff, complete with a note saying that damages would be added to Charles’ bill. Charles sat down on the bed, watching Maxwell hold up the wedding gown where it had been laid across the foot of the bed. 

“It has a corset back.” Maxwell said, turning to Charles, holding the gown up to his own body, smirking at the man. “Definitely something you’d enjoy.”

“Perhaps if you try it on my memory can be jostled?” Charles asked, his mouth going dry as he looked at Charles. 

“Of course, why didn’t I think of that?” Maxwell laughed, his eyes glittering as he undid the buttons on his dress, letting it slide off of his body. Charles contemplated opening the bottle of whiskey they had bought for Colonel Potter, but refrained. He didn’t want to forget this like he did the previous night. The entire dress was lace save the ribbon laced into the corset at the back, dangling limply down to the floor as Maxwell turned and adjusted his dark curls. He put in the paste gem earrings he had worn, carefully applied a fresh layer of lipstick, and then looked over his shoulder at Charles. 

Charles stood, walking over to tie the delicate ribbon, taking in peeks of dark skin through the delicate lace that encased Maxwell’s arms and over his collarbone and shoulders. The full skirt brushed the floor, allowing Charles brief peeks of Maxwell’s gold shoes, and when the young man turned, Charles couldn’t help but stare. 

“How do I look?” Maxwell asked, giving a twirl in the room. 

“Beautiful.” Charles could imagine Maxwell in a church in Boston, smiling as the rainbow of stained glass dappled over him. He would have been perfect in such a setting. 

“Remembering anything?” Maxwell asked as he gave a twirl, Charles’ arms wrapped around his waist, his fingers sliding over the ribbon he had just done up. 

“No, but I would like to make new memories,” Charles’ hands gripped Maxwell’s hips and lifted him with a low grunt, perching the younger man on the edge of the dresser, Maxwell’s hands slapping down on polished wood to keep himself steady. His lean legs wrapped around Charles’ waist, pulling the older man close as he grinned up at him. “Do _you_ remember anything, pet?”

“No… I’m not sure.” Maxwell flushed, kissing Charles gently. “All I remember is the alleyway.”

Charles smiled as he gripped Maxwell’s drawn in waist, tossing up layers of lace and tulle until he could feel Maxwell’s dark, warm thighs, drawing his underwear aside. “Perhaps I can refresh both of our memories.” He murmured as he kissed down Maxwell’s neck, chest, stomach. 

Maxwell moaned, fingers tangled in the sea of fabric that was his wedding gown as Charles knelt before him, the man’s mouth warm and eager as he bit at Maxwell’s thighs, pushing his legs further open so that he could press his mouth to Maxwell’s length, already hard and eager through lace. 

“Fuck, Major…” Maxwell moaned, his head striking the wall with a thud as his legs trembled with eagerness, trying to draw Charles closer with his knees about the man’s shoulders. When Charles’ mouth moved from Maxwell’s length to his entrance, Maxwell whined, shivering as Charles’ tongue sank into him, the man’s fingers teasing and rubbing over his thighs and the back of his knees. “Fuck!” He gasped when two fingers slid easily into his body, gasping and thrusting against Charles’ long digits. “Charles, please, don’t tease me.”

“There’s a difference between teasing you and properly preparing you, Maxwell,” Charles murmured against the younger man’s thigh, teasing his mouth up to the crease of his groin and thigh. He sucked a bruise there while Maxwell writhed and whined and begged incoherently. “If you are working to get me to give up on proper preparation you are doing a good job.”

“Do it,” Maxwell whined. “Please, please, Major, baby, _Charles_!”

How could he disobey such a pretty order?

Charles stood, gripped Maxwell’s narrow hips and practically threw him, in a cloud of lace and tulle, onto the bed. Maxwell bounced, laughed, and kicked his legs to try and get the skirts away from his body as he propped himself up on one elbow. Charles groaned as Maxwell reached out with his free hand to stroke the other man, calloused fingers feeling heavenly on Charles’ aching length. 

“Darling…” Charles groaned, kissing Maxwell gently, their bodies pressed close together. 

“Come on, Major, don’t keep me waiting.”

“Spoiled little pet.” Charles growled as he gripped a lean thigh, slowly thrusting into Maxwell. It was a tight fit, usually it took so much more preparation for Charles to feel that he was prepared. Maxwell was just so _small_ and even as his nails dug into Charles’ shoulders through his thin shirt, Charles couldn’t help but feel his entire body heat at the feeling, sight, the very thought of the fact that _Maxwell_ was _his_.

Maxwell waved his hand in Charles’ face, gasping and grinning as Charles rocked their bodies together slowly. “You’re stuck with me now, Major. Till death do us part and all that jazz.” Charles swooped down, stealing a long kiss from Maxwell, sealing the promise as he gripped Maxwell’s waist and held him close.

* * *

“Hey, Major Winchester, you got a movie!” O’Reilly called as he entered the Swamp with the mail, holding an enormous movie reel tin. “Also a letter from your sister, but gee a real movie!”

“I did not order any such thing.” Charles said as he looked at the tin. There was a label written in Japanese on the front, but other than that nothing to show what it was. 

“Did you order a dirty movie, Chuckles?” McIntyre asked with a grin from where he was gulping down gin with Hunnicutt. 

“Why would I need a dirty movie, McIntyre, all of _my_ needs are being well met.” Charles rolled his eyes at the two.

O’Reilly held the reel tin and shuffled from foot to foot before he grinned widely, “Well, uh, I can get Igor to set up the camera in Colonel Potter’s office? We could all sit down with some popcorn and watch it.”

“Sure that Chuckles shouldn’t get a private showing in case it’s something he doesn’t want us seeing?” Hunnicutt asked, raising a brow at his fellow surgeon. It was an obvious out for the man, a small mercy, but Charles didn’t need it.

“I highly doubt that I have done anything for a camera that I would regret.” He looked at O’Reilly. “Why don’t you get Straminsky to set up the camera, and I’ll collect Maxwell, I’m sure he’d enjoy it as well.”

“Oh, uh, can I invite Hawkeye and Colonel Potter?”

“Of course, the last three weeks have been enough boredom that if this will alleviate it and make Captain Pierce more tolerable then I will make the sacrifice.” Charles stood, checked himself in the tiny mirror, before he stepped out into the compound. Everything was quiet for the past few weeks. If it weren’t for the fact that they were still in Korea, everyone would have thought that the war had ended. Perhaps it had, and the 4077th had just been left behind, Charles tried not to think about it too much even though it had consumed his every waking thought for the past week.

“Maxwell, darling,” Charles smiled into the Corporal’s tent, the sewing machine stopped its hum as Maxwell turned to look up at him. They had agreed that for the good of their secret, to keep the half of the compound that hated them from having another reason to hate them, that Maxwell wouldn’t wear the rings on his finger. As of late he had taken to wearing them on his dogtags, tucked into his shirt, and Charles wore his wedding ring as the same. Charles gently lifted Maxwell’s dog tags, laying a brief kiss on the diamond engagement ring before he let it drop. “I recieved a movie in today’s mail, O’Reilly and Straminsky are setting it up in Colonel Potter’s office.”

“Did you order a dirty movie, Major?” Maxwell asked with a grin. 

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Charles huffed, giving Maxwell’s cheek a light pinch. “Come along, darling, your fingers are going to be sewn raw.”

When Maxwell had changed out of his housecoat, freshened up his hair, applied a layer of lipstick and slid into his nice black heels the two of them made their way across the compound.

“Got the movie set up, Radar?” Maxwell asked as he pulled a cigar out of his handbag, feeling through for matches only to curse when he failed to find them. “Colonel Potter, can I borrow a light?”

“Sure thing, son.” Potter said as he sat at his desk. Straminsky was manning the projector, carefully feeding the film through. 

Pierce, Hunnicutt, and McIntyre were wearing their Sunday best, which mostly consisted of bath robes and the wild hats they had somehow acquired in their time in Korea. When Charles sat down, Maxwell perched himself in his lap without preamble or even an ask for permission, taking up the spot that everyone knew by now was rightfully his. 

“Alright, alright, pipe down everyone,” O’Reilly said as he turned off the light, passing around a bedpan filled with popcorn.

“You clean that out, Radar?” Hunnicutt asked. 

“This is the one we usually use as a brick warmer for the beds.”

“Okay, I’ll bite.”

The projector lit up, ran, and then the screen was lit up with the sight of a wedding gown parlor, the camera turning to look at the various dresses before it caught and focused on a laughing Charles, standing beside a curtain. He gave a salute to the camera, leaning against the wall hidden behind the curtain. There was no sound and the film was in black and white, but it was focused and high enough quality that Charles knew he had paid good money. 

“Charles? Smiling? Now I know that this is fiction.” McIntyre called and everyone chuckled at that. 

The camera pulled back and the curtain Charles was in front of flung open, catching him in the face and revealing an equally drunken Maxwell standing in a dressing room, wearing the white tulle and lace wedding gown. Everyone started to laugh in delight when they realized what they were watching. 

“Oh my god! Charles! Charles, run!” Pierce howled with laughter. 

Charles on screen untangled himself from the curtain and everyone, including Maxwell on and off screen giggled at the sight of Charles staring, mouth agape at the sight of Maxwell. 

The scene cut and then instead of a gown store they were in what looked to be a chapel of some sort. It didn’t look like anything formal, and the elderly Japanese man was dressed in a black formal vestment.

“Who is that?” O’Reilly whispered to Straminsky.

“The priest, I think,” Hunnicutt said as he watched. “Looks like he’s not sure what’s going on.”

“That’s okay, the bride and groom don’t seem to know what’s going on either.”

Charles held Maxwell close as he watched the screen with wide eyes, the memories of that night slowly coming back to him. They had bought the dress, then gone and asked for a priest. They couldn’t find a western one, and Charles doubted an American chaplain would have performed such a ceremony between an officer and an NCO, but they had found a shinto priest. 

The camera jostled, moved around the two, and showed Charles fumbling through his pockets before he found a velvet ring box, opening it up to show the priest, who smiled broadly, nodding and accepting the rings before he said something unheard to the couple. 

Three cups of sake were poured and Charles was certain that the man who had recorded them had explained that it was a “poor man’s” wedding, that they didn’t have time or preparation for the full ceremony. 

“They’re not really gonna get married without us!” O’Reilly shouted. “Oooh, sir! Klinger! You didn’t really get married without us!”

“Give them a minute, Radar, I think that they’re having a moment.” 

All eyes were on them and Charles hugged Maxwell close as the two of them watched the film, the camera now placed between the two, catching Charles, Maxwell, and the priest all in one frame. 

“What are they saying?” Straminsky asked softly. 

“Vows, son,” Potter said. 

“Which ones?”

Charles watched himself on screen and spoke up, soft enough that everyone could only hear if they remained silent. “I, Charles Emerson Winchester III, take thee, Maxwell al-Qurhah Klinger, to be my lawfully wedding husband.” He said as his own lips moved on screen in sync, Maxwell’s eyes still fixed on the screen. “I promise to love and comfort you, to honor and keep you, forsaking all others.” On screen Charles lifted the engagement ring and the wedding ring, sliding them onto Maxwell’s finger. Charles stared at the sight, hugging Maxwell closer in his lap before he continued. “For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, I will be yours alone as long as we both shall live.” On screen he lifted the sake cup and sipped three times, placing the cup down and looking at Maxwell.

The younger man picked up Charles’ ring, sliding it onto the man’s finger on screen and he smiled as he looked up at Charles and spoke. There was silence for a moment before Maxwell’s voice whispered from where he as on Charles’ lap. “I, Maxwell al-Qurhah Klinger, offer you, Charles Emerson Winchester III, myself in marriage.” Charles hugged Maxwell closer as he watched their wedding on screen. “I pledge in honesty with sincerity to be for you an obedient and faithful husband. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, until death do us part.” 

On screen the priest spoke some more, and neither Maxwell nor Charles could remember what was said, even if they could understand it. After a few minutes, Charles leaned in, captured Maxwell’s jaw in both of his own broad palms, pulled the young man close to kiss him deeply. 

The room erupted into cheers and delighted whistles as the others watched the film finish, turning to white on the sheet they used as a projection screen. 

O’Reilly turned on the lights and looked angrily at Maxwell, pouting. “You got married without us!”

“To be fair, neither of us remembered it.” Maxwell smiled, clutching Charles’ hand tightly. “I mean, we saw the dress and rings in the hotel the next day, but we honestly couldn’t remember a thing.”

“Where’s the rings? Don’t tell me you hocked your wedding rings!” Hunnicutt sounded appalled at the thought and Charles remembered that while McIntyre was unhappily married, Hunnicutt was happily, desperately in love with his wife. 

Charles was hesitant before he smiled and stood up, taking off his dogtags as Maxwell slid off his lap and removed his own dogtags. They fumbled together amidst a round of applause from the others, hoots and hollers from the gruesome threesome of Swamp Rats. 

“And now, ladies and germs, we have a magic trick!” Pierce called. “With this ring, Chuckles the Pompous will turn one Maxwell Klinger into a married house husband!”

“Do shut up, Pierce.” Charles called with a sigh, sliding the rings onto Maxwell’s hand, and then holding out his own hand for Maxwell to do the same with his own wedding ring. 

“Now you gotta kiss!” Straminsky shouted from the back, causing the entire room to turn and stare at him. “Oh come on, if they’re gonna give the rings they gotta kiss!”

Maxwell laughed and grasped Charles’ fatigue collar, dragging the man down to kiss him, Charles practically bent in half as he smiled into a firm kiss before they parted. 

“Even drunk out of your mind you still managed to think a few weeks ahead.” Maxwell teased gently. “Gotta make sure Major Burns doesn’t get that.”

“You can keep it in here, Major, Corporal.” Potter smiled at them. “Just don’t forget it if we ever gotta bug out.”


	31. Alcoholics Unanimous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burns goes mad with power when Potter decides to leave him in charge of the 4077th for his week in Tokyo for R&R. Charles struggles with his own demons.

Addiction, Charles found, was not so simple as distracting yourself from the need for something. It wasn’t as simple as drying out, crawling out of a bottle on all fours and vomiting for three days and then returning to normal. It was a struggle, a constant battle with temptation, with weakness. 

And sometimes, trading one addiction for another was the easiest solution. 

“Pierce, where is my cognac?” Charles asked with a scowl, turning to glare at his tent mates after rummaging desperately through his footlocker. He had spent a long shift in O.R. only to then go to into post-op when one of Burns’ previous patients had practically drowned his insides in ten bottles of blood within four hours. He had opened up the boy again and spent an hour searching for the shrapnel in the boy’s intestines.

“Who cares about your cognac, Charles!” McIntyre shouted, eyes wild as he gestured to a noticeable emptiness in the Swamp, an emptiness that Charles had ignored in his single-mindedness. “Our _still_ is missing!”

Charles stood, staring blankly at the desk where the still once stood and gritted his teeth. “ _Burns_. Just like him to go mad with power the _day_ that Colonel Potter leaves for his six days of R&R.”

“He can’t just take our still like that!” Hunnicutt shouted, clearly realizing that one of the most easy to come by distractions from the khaki hell he had found himself in was gone.

“I can and I did.” The four surgeons turned and scowled at the sight of Burns standing in the doorway to the Swamp, what existed of his lips pulled into a smug, closed-mouth grin. “I’m drying out this unit. You all are alcoholics. Hopeless, elbow-bending boozers!”

Charles glared at the man, standing at his full height and looking down his nose at him. “Major Burns, alcohol has been the only thing keeping me from breaking your arms on a daily basis, and my Hippocratic oath along with them.”

Burns produced a paper from his pocket, waving it at the tent full of doctors. “From the deputy assistant undersecretary of defense on drug and alcohol abuse,” He looked at it and began to read, as if anyone of the surgeons glaring him down cared. “Surveys have shown that 57.230% of all military personnel in the Asian Theater have a drinking problem.” Burns stood, glaring at them. “You’re all alcoholics! You drink _constantly_.”

“Alright, we drink!” Pierce shouted. “We drink so that we can get through these lousy, stinking, 48-hour days.”

“We’re cold, filthy, lonely!” McIntyre added.

“Scared, bored, tired!” Pierce agreed with a nod.

“Frightened and _very_ drowsy.” Hunnicutt chimed in, trying to be the voice of reason. “Come on, Burns, when Colonel Potter comes back he’s just going to let us set the still back up again.”

“I don’t give one _whit_ about your personal problems or what the Colonel will do when he comes back!” He turned to the door and stepped out into the billowing rain. “I hereby declare this unit dry for the duration of my time as commanding officer!” He turned to point at the group inside the Swamp. “Total prohibition, and that is an _official_ order!”

* * *

Charles was uncertain about how long his patience with Burns’ antics would hold out. But when Burns assembled everyone in the compound the next day and declared that they would be moving across the road, he was certain that it would not last more than a couple more days, certainly not long enough for Potter to get back and save him from a court-martial. 

“Where are _you_ going, Winchester?” Burns asked with a sneer as Charles finished setting up his cot in the newly moved Swamp. 

“Post-op duties,” Charles turned abruptly to face the other man and caused him to jump at the sudden movement. “Or did you forget that we’re a _hospital_. That comes at the end of M*A*S*H*, you know, Major Burns.” He didn’t bother changing out of his sweat-soaked fatigues, he wouldn’t be able to feel clean until he had a shower, and that would be close to one in the morning if prior history held true. 

One day of withdrawl from alcohol made him shaky and nauseous, but two days with such intense physical activity at the end of it made Charles vomit on his way to post-op, wheezing and shaking his way through the symptoms. He was still sweating as if he had run six miles and his empty stomach was riddled with nausea with nothing to expel to relieve it.

“Doctor, are you okay?”

“Yes, Whitfield, I’m fine.” Charles managed, relieving McIntyre, who gave him a long look. 

“You sure you can handle your shift, Chuckles?”

“McIntyre, don’t make me repeat myself, you know how it annoys me.” Charles bit out. “Just tell me about the patients that need looking after the most.”

“Pretty slow night, honestly,” McIntyre gestured. “Got five patients, and only two of them need round the clock attention, one with chest tubes, the other with a fever that we can’t let get past 104.”

“Fine, fine, you’re relieved.” Charles murmured as he sat down at the desk at the back of post-op. 

Within three hours Nurse Whitfield had taken two breaks and Charles had refused to do so. If he stopped he was certain that he’d collapse in exhaustion and sleep through the rest of his shift. 

“Doctor, why don’t you go in the lab? I have a coca cola I was saving for a special occasion in there?” Nurse Whitfield said with a smile. “Take five, Major Winchester.”

Charles was about to argue, but when Whitfield brandished her clipboard at him he stood with a brief, thankful smile. “Thank you, Captain Whitfield.”

Walking into the lab, Charles opened the refrigerator that they kept specimens and bloods in, smiling at the sight of a coca cola bottle inside. He collected the cold glass and immediately felt relief, sitting down on the stool in front of the microscope to hold the chilled bottle to his face, his neck, trying to relieve himself of the sweats. 

He turned his head to press the glass to the back of his neck and froze at the sight of the drug cabinet, his eyes fixed on the innocuous brown bottle of amphetamines. 

He had avoided the lab for some time after his slip up. Had tried his best to avoid reasons to go in there, much less reasons to open the drug cabinet. For a brief period Henry Blake had kept the cabinet locked, supposedly due to worries of agents from the black market stealing drugs from the cabinet. The lock had gone when said agents had just shattered the glass and stolen the contents of the cabinet anyway. 

Charles opened the cabinet and collected the little brown bottle into his hand, staring at it quietly. He was stronger now. He knew his limits, knew when to stop. He had been taking them every day previously, every twelve hours, this time he knew better. If he took one or two every few days, spaced them out, he wouldn’t develop such a dependence on them.

Maxwell’s voice echoed in his mind. _“You’d tell me if you were, right? I hated seeing you like that. It was awful, worse than bodies in the O.R., worse than driving to Seoul and having to go past soldiers left behind, worse than anything I’ve ever seen.”_

Maxwell didn’t have to worry. He’d take a few pills to get through this god awful week of Burns’ madness, and then when alcohol was allowed back in the camp he would stop taking them. Ten pills ought to do it, would be more than enough, surely.

Charles grabbed a notepad, folded a small square of paper into an envelope and placed the ten carefully counted out pills inside. He took two more from the bottle, swallowed them down and chased them with a drink from the coca cola bottle, and stood to return to Captain Whitfield. 

Nobody else needed to know.

* * *

“Come on, Winchester, out with it.” Hunnicutt asked as he changed into his pajamas, a small luxury from home that his wife had sent in her latest care package. “Why Frank and not you?”

“I believe it was an attempt on the Colonel’s part to give Burns an opportunity to prove himslf.” Charles sighed, rubbing his own eyes. He was well into the thick of his high, but resting on the bed sounded like as good of an idea as any. He could catch up on medical journals at the very least while the others went about their business for the day. “And he did not quite realize how out of control Burns would become since previously Colonel Blake failed to report any of Burns’ madness while in command.”

McIntyre groaned as he rubbed his eyes. “At least if Blake had been writing everybody up for big foul ups then he’d be writing up Burns for all of his bullshit.”

“Both in and out of the operating room.” Pierce mumbled, clearly sick and unhappy at the fact that during the bug out he had still not found the still. 

“Look, the best we can do right now is hope that no wounded come around, and that when Potter comes back he realizes that he should never leave Frank in charge again.” McIntyre said simply. “And get Radar to call Tokyo to get Colonel Potter to bring back some booze.”

* * *

The next day Burns moved everyone back across the road, the entire camp dismantled and returned to the exact same position that it had been in before Colonel Potter’s leave. Day three of Burns’ regime was just as hellish as the previous two and what made it even worse was Burns’ insistence on harassing Maxwell and Charles in their separate duties. While Charles was performing his O.D. duties, Maxwell was given the task of digging a new latrine, Burns seeming to split his time between yelling at Maxwell in a hole he had dug, and yelling at Charles while he examined a Local Indigenous Personnel by the name of Kim Luck (the fifth one of the day even with the task of moving the camp once more). Despite the lack of alcohol to lubricate his good will, Charles still felt good, riding the high of the previous night’s dose of dexies. 

When the end of his shift came Charles walked with a pep in his step to Maxwell’s rebuilt tent, knocking on the door with a smile, his hands hidden behind his back. 

Maxwell opened the door and smiled up at him, exhausted and smelling like cleaning solvent from his time scrubbing down the kitchens. “Is the lady of the house home?” Charles asked as he stepped inside.

“What are you selling?” He asked, changing out of the standard issue fatigues that Burns had bullied Maxwell into wearing. Charles watched, waiting until Maxwell was in his little blue nightie and silk dressing gown before he held out a package of nylon stockings.

“Would you like me to play shoe salesman?”

Maxwell laughed. “How do you have the energy?” He asked, smiling up at the man. “Last I checked you were drying out and vomiting just like the rest of the surgeons.”

“I made sure that I got all my vomiting done on the first day.” Charles kissed Maxwell gently. “I’m used to withdrawl, it stands to reason that I’d recover faster than the others who haven’t had to dry out since they got here.”

Maxwell looked at him worriedly, stroking over his face before he smiled, seeming to take Charles’ explanation at face value. It didn’t fail to make Charles feel like he was entirely unworthy of the other man, but he simply leaned in and kissed Maxwell softly. The younger man sat down, breaking the kiss in order to stretch out his leg, resting his foot upon the man’s hip. 

“I’m looking for something nice in a pair of high heels, clerk.” He said, smirking at the surgeon as he wiggled his painted toes. 

“Of course.” Charles said, bending to rest on one knee, letting Maxwell’s foot rest upon the other as he opened the package of nylons to separate one. He bundled it up, slid Maxwell’s toes inside, and then began to inch the nylon up his ankle, his calves, his knee and then to his thigh. Maxwell’s eyes drifted shut and he sighed, tilting his head back contentedly at the feel of of Charles’ fingers on his thigh, kneading and tracing the lace at the top of the stocking. “What colour?”

“Hmm?” Maxwell opened his eyes and looked down at Charles. “What?”

“The shoes, miss?” Charles kissed Maxwell’s knee slowly. “Those heels you were looking for?”

Maxwell shivered and grinned widely. “Something in pink.” He purred, nodding to the shoes neatly lined up along the wall. There was a new shoebox there and Charles blinked at it before he grinned. “Dug it up from the closet during the bug out, I _was_ saving them for Valentine’s day.”

Charles picked up the box and opened it up. The little pink heels had plastic heart shaped buckles on the top of the foot, right above a peekaboo toe. “Is there a dress to go with them?”

“Not yet,” Maxwell smirked, holding out his foot. “Come on, Mr. Shoe Salesman.”

Charles chuckled and leaned in to kiss Maxwell’s ankle before he slid the shoe in place, looking up at Maxwell eagerly. 

“Perfect fit.”

“Every girl likes feeling like Cinderella, but not everyone gets the Prince of Boston to put on her glass slipper.” Maxwell purred, draping his leg over Charles’ shoulder, the man’s face pressing to Maxwell’s inner thigh to deliver a hungering bite, making the Corporal gasp and laugh. “Boston, Transylvania, apparently.”

* * *

By the fifth day of Colonel Potter’s absence Charles’ patience had worn well and truly thin. With the hospital moved twice, the entire camp made dry, Burns had decided to try and remake the entire camp into his own absolutely bizarre image. Cold showers, calisthenics, parades, retreats, and snap inspections. When Charles found Burns performing a snap inspection in Maxwell’s tent, running his fingers through the Corporal’s fine lace and silk underwear like some sort of perverted boarding school child, he couldn’t help but narrow his eyes at the other man. His expression must have shown some small amount of murderous intent, because Burns dropped the fine fabrics and scampered away like a rat back to its hole. 

The only thing that truly saved Burns from any immediate retaliation (such as telling Major Houlihan about the fondling her lover had done on another man’s underwear) was a flood of wounded that arrived late in the evening of day five of the Burns’ reign of terror. Charles had held off on taking another pep pill, but with a full day of work behind him and a potentially overwhelming next two days ahead, he took only one to keep himself awake and focused through the worst of it all. 

Six hours in seemed to be when Burns’ own ability to be an even halfway competent surgeon failed him.

“Hold it! Hold it!” Pierce stepped away from his latest patient, gesturing for Able to step in to dress the stitched wound. “There's no double-parking here.” He said to the corpsmen who were carrying in another body faster than they could clear the tables.

Hunnicutt checked his latest patient and shook his head. “I can't put him to sleep. He's in shock. This patient isn't stable.”

“Which of us is?” McIntyre asked as he worked through shrapnel in a man’s lungs. 

“I’m not kidding, damnit, I’m not operating till he gets a few units of blood.” Hunnicutt said, stepping aside and trying to wade through the overcrowded room to another patient he _could_ help.

“Same here.” Pierce said, doing the same weird two step as Hunnicutt. “I cut into this patient with his hemoglobin, he's gonna stroke out.”

“Enough is quite enough,” Charles growled, ripping off his gloves and turning to check on the various patients, calling corpsmen to carry the ones that couldn’t be treated just yet back out. “Whitfield, close for me. Burns! Get in here, Burns!”

Burns stumbled through the pre-op doors, snarling as nurse Baker nearly ran into him. “Watch it, clumsy!”

“In your ear!” Baker sneered, walking out into pre-op to try and sort out the mess Burns had made.

“Burns, Pierce’s patient needs a transfusion and Hunnicutt’s is likely to stroke out during his operation. I know you have adopted the Henry Ford principles of medicine, but you cannot send wounded out on an assembly line and expect us to merely attach the headlights!” Charles shouted at the other doctor, making Burns bluster and snarl at him.

“Pick pick pick! That’s all you do!”

“I wouldn’t have to if you recalled that pre-op meant preparation. So get back in there and prep them!” Charles stepped around the mess of tables and bodies and sponges on the floor, the entire building rattling as shelling continued, growing closer. 

“Is that a bomb?” Burns asked, his voice going high with fear as he looked to the ceiling as if it might collapse on him.

“No, Frank, someone’s playing their World War II album.” McIntyre called form his table where he was finishing up.

“Burns!” Charles roared, fury turning his face bright red as he stalked towards the other doctor. “Get those men stable and in here, but get them _stable_ first!”

“Listen, they're backing up out there. With all this shelling, there'll be more wounded! We'll overflow! We'll be buried alive!”

Pierce came to Charles’ side, glaring at Burns as his patience wore thin. “That beats their being buried dead, Frank. Now get out there and practice medicine or I'm gonna report you to Lionel Barrymore.”

Burns seemed to rattle out of his fear long enough to hear _that_. “I'm your superior officer, Pierce! You will not talk to me in that insolent manner!”

“Burns,” Charles’ voice was deathly calm as he stared at Frank, taking one step forward at a time, causing him to take one step back for each one. You can either help the wounded or become one.”

Straminsky came racing through the door, carrying fresh pints of blood gathered from the people who were not operating, sending the swinging door of pre-op slamming into Burns’ head. Charles reached out to catch Burns before he fell to the floor and became an impediment to traffic, sighing in relief that it had not come to blows.

“Straminsky.” Charles said, looking at the private. “You may just have saved countless lives.”

Straminsky stared at Charles, then Burns, before he held up his bottles of blood. “… It’s… Just some blood, sir?”


	32. The Novocaine Mutiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Potter returns from R&R, Burns tries to have Winchester court-martial on the grounds of mutiny.

“The contention is that the accused, with intent to usurp lawful military authority did at the 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital on or about June 11, 1952, willfully attack his commanding officer, Major Frank Burns, and did illegally take command. This preliminary hearing is to determine whether the facts in this case indicate that a court-martial should be conducted and whether the accused, Major Charles Emerson Winchester III, should stand trial under Article 94 on the charge of mutiny.” Colonel Carmichael placed the document down and stared at Charles. “Is that clear, Major?”

“Yes, Colonel.” Charles said, nodded his head in understanding as he sat in his uniform, surrounded by his cohort from the 4077th, his accused seated right behind him next to Colonel Potter. His jaw was set and his eyes cold as he waited for the hearing to continue. 

“As these charges have been brought by Major Burns the court requests that he open the proceedings by answering a few questions.” Colonel Carmichael looked at Burns with the no-nonsense expression of someone who took military order very seriously and had already managed to get the measure of Major Burns. “Take the stand, Major.”

“Yes, sir.” Burns went to sit in the chair to the right of Carmichael and glared at Charles before he held up his hand. 

“You swear that the evidence you give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” Carmichael asked, looking down at what was clearly Burns’ file in front of him.

"Absotively." Burns said quickly.

Carmichael gave the Major an unimpressed look. “A simple "I do" will be sufficient.”

Burns shuffled in his seat before he nodded. “I do, sir.”

“I'm certain you comprehend the seriousness of your charge, Major.” Carmichael gave Burns a once over before he seemed to rethink that statement, firmly reminding the other man. “The penalty for mutiny, after all, is death or such other punishment as the court may direct.”

Charles didn’t like the way his heart pounded harder at the thought of being put to death. Especially not on the testimony of Frank Burns. He especially didn’t like the slightly smug curl of Burns’ lips as the man glared at him across the room. 

“I comprehend okay. Death, or worse.” He said, narrowing his eyes at Charles, who allowed his lip to twitch in his own sneer.

Carmichael let out a soft, barely heard sigh before he looked down at Burns’ file, then flipped open Charles’ own. “Now, Major, you have served with the accused for some time. Had he ever indicated to you that he might consider mutiny?”

“Winchester is a degenerate and a pervert, Colonel,” Burns said sharply. “He is deliberately kind to those members of our outfit who should never have been drafted into the army. He spends all of his time with a transvestite enlisted man and for the first year of his arrival was trying to find ways to get _out_ of the army!” Burns glared at Charles from his seat and then turned to look at the Colonel with the wide, earnest eyes of an idiot who believed every word he said. “People like Winchester are a menace to the American way of life as I see it. Unless we each conform, unless we obey orders, unless we follow our leaders blindly there is no possible way we can remain free.”

Colonel Carmichael paused, staring at Burns before he nodded slowly, processing the man’s words. “You may take your seat, Major.” Turning his gaze to Charles, he gestured for the man to approach and sit in the chair occupied by Burns just moments before. “Major Winchester? Do you swear the evidence you give shall be the truth, the whole truth... and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” 

“I do.” Charles said, crossing his legs and resting his hands upon his knee. 

“You have any opening remarks?” Carmichael asked, gesturing for Charles to speak.

“Yes. Unaccustomed as I am to public lynching, let me say that even the army must have better things to do than listen to the ravings of a Major Frank Burns.” Charles refused to look at his accuser as he spoke to Carmichael, as polite as if he was having lunch with the man in Boston. “Major Burns has made it his mission in life to ruin my good name since I suggested he created more widows and pallbearers than the bubonic plague.”

Carmichael blinked, glancing at Burns then looked back at Charles. “Would you say that your lack of respect for the Major's medical skills might have been the cause for the alleged mutiny?”

Charles let out a wry chuckle. “Colonel, there was no mutiny. My fellow Major’s medical skills that are alleged.” Charles looked over at Burns for the first time since he took the stand. “I'd say that Major Burns snapped under the burden of command, and that as loathe I am to be placed in charge of the 4077th in the absence of Colonel Blake, that Major Burns never should have been put in the position of command.” Charles turned to face the Colonel when Burns’ expression turned ugly, ignoring the man’s stewing anger. “What’s more, if the politicians of the world hadn't failed to keep the peace he'd be back in Indiana right now with his cozy little malpractice, meeting his receptionist two afternoons a week at the Golden Goose Motel.”

Burns stomped his feet and made as if to stand, only to be forcibly yanked down by Colonel Potter’s firm grip, his chair clattering as it moved a few inches from the impact of Burns’ return to the seat.

Carmichael, to his credit, seemed to realize that speaking to Charles or Burns about one another would only result in an endless feedback loop of hatred. “Perhaps at this time we'd better hear from Colonel Sherman Potter.” Charles walked back to his seat in this rather official version of musical chairs, watching as Colonel Potter stood to take his oath. “Colonel Potter? You swear the evidence you give shall be the truth, the whole truth... and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

Potter sounded weary of these proceedings already as he said, “I do.”

“If you would start at the beginning, please, sir?” Carmichael seemed relieved that he at least had a regular army officer to give testimony, not a cabal of nutty doctors.

“Very well. On 5 October, I was preparing to depart for six days of R and R in Tokyo.” Potter began. “Major Burns had been giving me static ever since I arrived in the 4077th. While he had been with the unit longer, and had previously been left in command of the 4077th in Lieutenant Colonel Blake’s previous absences, Winchester had been left in charge until I was appointed C.O..” Potter looked at Carmichael. “Now I know that Frank Burns is a bit eccentric, but it made sense to me to place him in charge simply to give him a bit of a boost and to let him organize a few things while I was gone. Nothing too wild, I didn’t want to come back to white washed rocks, but if ever there was a man made for organizing, it was Burns.” Potter sighed and looked at the surgeons. “I didn’t expect to come back to Burns in post-op and Winchester running the 4077th.”

“Thank you, Colonel Potter.” Carmichael looked at his notes and then spoke. “Captain John McIntyre?”

“Yo.” McIntyre stood up and smiled as he approached the stand, holding up his hand. 

“You swear the evidence you give shall be the truth, the whole truth... and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do.” McIntyre sat down, chewing on a piece of gum until Carmichael stared at him enough that he decided to swallow it. 

“Now… Captain. Please give us an explanation of Major Burns’ behavior after Colonel Potter’s leaving?”

McIntyre laughed. “Colonel Potter's chair wasn't even cold before Frank decided to re-create the 4077 in his own weird and twisted image.” 

Burns stood, snarling at McIntyre, “I object to the word "weird”!”

McIntyre gave Burns a look. “How about warped? Bizarre? Balmy? Perverted? Loony? Loopy? Dippy?” He stuck out his tongue as Burns stomped his feet. Colonel Carmichael slammed his gavel down to get order and the two stopped their childish tantrums towards one another.

“Captain McIntyre, please give the court some examples of the major's alleged... peculiarities.”

“The first day Frank removed our still. The lifeblood of our unit, because he made the accusation that we were all alcoholics and that we would be better off without booze.” McIntyre looked at the Colonel. “Colonel Carmichael, we’re all cold, tired, and miles away from home, for a lot of us drinking is how we get through the day. I’m not saying that it’s good for our health, but to go cold turkey all of a sudden? Within twenty four hours there were seven people in our unit who were in the process of drying out and that resulted in the usual shakes, vomiting, loss of appetite, etc. Three of those people drying out were surgeons.”

“I take it you, Pierce, and Winchester were those three?”

McIntyre placed his finger on his nose then pointed at Carmichael. “Now all of this is bad enough, but then, on the second day, Frank observed that the "M" in MASH stood for "mobile”.” The Captain leaned back in his chair and sighed. “So, with a bunch of vomiting, exhausted, shaky personnel, he had us break down the entire unit and move it across the road. And then the next day we moved right back again.”

“Alright, this seems… In line with the camp records. B.J. Hunnicutt?” Hunnicutt approached the stand and stood before Carmichael, “You swear the evidence you give shall be the truth, the whole truth... and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“Yes, sir.” Hunnicutt sat down and Carmichael took in his good, clean, all American appearance.

“Now, Captain Hunnicutt, please give your own impression of Major Burns as a commanding officer.”

“To be fair, I had only been around Major Winchester as a C.O. for a few weeks before Colonel Potter relieved him of the duty. But the six days that Major Burns was command felt like it lasted five weeks longer than Major Winchester’s time as C.O.. Major Burns insisted on cold showers, calisthenics, parades, retreats, and snap inspections.” Hunnicutt smiled at the Colonel wryly. “Let's face it, Colonel. All that discipline is a bit much to expect from dumb doctors.”

A pause, then Colonel Carmichael nodded. “True.”

“Worst of all, I guess, Frank used his newfound power to invade the privacy of everyone in camp, multiple times a day while we were on our rotations. I came to my tent one day to find a cake that my wife had sent gone, and everyone else found some level of personal violation or other. One of the worse things for Major Winchester was Frank’s seemingly endless campaign to push his buttons.” Hunnicutt nodded to Burns. “Frank mentioned people that should have never been enlisted in the army and Charles’ own deliberate kindness and camaraderie towards those misfits. The one person that fit that bill the most was Corporal Klinger, who Frank was determined to harass. He had gone through the Corporal’s underwear drawer to fondle it all, had thrown out dozens of dresses that Charles had then helped Klinger retrieve from the garbage, and had assigned Klinger nearly endless K.P. duty, when Potter had initially requested Klinger work post-op.”

“This… Corporal Klinger, she’s a nurse?” Colonel Carmichael asked as he made a note, frowning at the description of the inappropriate behaviour Burns had engaged in.

“No, sir.” Hunnicutt gave a smile to the man. “Corporal Klinger is a corpsman. He's a good soldier. He'd prefer to be a good civilian. Toward that end he dresses, uh... In dresses.”

Carmichael paused before he nodded in understanding. “Bucking for a Section 8?”

Potter spoke up from his seat. “The man does his job and plenty others on top of it. I'll give him that. I'm not saying I'd want an entire company of Klingers.” Potter gave a wry smile. “Unless, of course, Christian Dior attacks Pearl Harbor.”

Carmichael sighed as he looked at Potter, then at Hunnicutt, dismissing the man from his seat on the stand. “I think we have a pretty clear picture of the breakdown of command that led to the events of 11 October. Now I would call on Major Burns to tell the court exactly what transpired on that day.”

“With pleasure, sir.” Burns stood and moved to sit on the stand, clearing his throat and letting out a put upon sigh. “It was one of those days that, more than most reminds us that war, however much we may enjoy it, is no strawberry festival. I was in O.R., treating the wounded, giving my own blood, the last rites, when Major Winchester, having what was clearly a mental break at his inferior surgical skills, grabbed a needle filled with Novocaine and knocked me out.”

Carmichael looked at Winchester, then at Burns, and shook his head for a moment. “Major Winchester, your rebuttal?”

Charles sat down on the stand, tempted to kick Burns’ shins on the way up. “Major Burns' version of what happened was, to say the least, fascinating. It was, to say the most, perjury.” Charles sighed and shook his head. “No, to be fair, I have no doubt that he remembers it that way. More's the pity. Of course, there was some truth to what he said. It was June 11 and we were in Korea. Other than that...” Charles sighed and shook his head. “Colonel, there is a process to getting wounded through a M*A*S*H* unit. It starts with the process of triage, where the most wounded who require the most urgent care are brought into pre-op, where they are prepared for surgery. This often requires such things as blood or plasma to stabilize young men who have lost a good amount of their own blood. If they are in shock it also becomes too dangerous to operate” Charles looked at Burns, then at Colonel Carmichael. “Major Burns had assigned himself the charge of organizing pre-op, but had sent us young men that were far too unstable for any of us to operate on, at a speed that had bodies piling up and obstructing the aisle.”

“He was not in surgery at that point?” Carmichael asked with a frown. 

“No, he was not. He had begun to break down within the first four hours and while Pierce, McIntyre, Hunnicutt and I were trying to keep the O.R. from flooding with blood and bodies like some horrifying reiteration of Noah’s Ark, Burns was screaming every time the shelling reminded him that we were in Korea.”

“Fear isn’t unusual.” Carmichael said, looking at Charles. “Certainly not a reason to assault one of your compatriots.”

“Fear is not an excuse.” Charles said. “You don’t think that I’m scared? That the other doctors are not scared? The nurses? The corpsmen? The _wounded_?” Charles shook his head. “With all due respect, Colonel, Burns was no more scared than anyone else in the unit, and he was not assaulted, no matter what he believes. The door to pre-op was opened by a corpsman bringing in blood, and Burns was struck in the head by the door.”

“Lies! You drugged me!” Burns shouted, stamping a foot as he glared at the other man.

Charles turned to face his accuser, scowling right back at him. “There’s a medical chart that was written by Captain Hunnicutt detailing your care for a concussion and one large goose egg on the back of your skull.” 

“Order!” Colonel Carmichael pounded his gavel and sighed, looking at them. “I will now take a moment to review the evidence. We will reconvene in fifteen minutes. Dismissed.”

* * *

Charles splashed water on his face as he stood in the bathroom of I-Corps’ HQ, waiting for his trial to be over with. His fingers shook as he reached into his breast pocket of his dress uniform and pulled out the small paper envelope of dexies, taking one of the pills and deftly breaking it in half before he tucked the packet back into his pocket. He swallowed the half dose down and the shaking of his hands calmed as he breathed evenly, letting his anger slowly sink into his chest, his stomach, disappearing through his shoes into the ground. 

“You okay, Chuckles?” Pierce’s voice called as he entered the restroom, looking over Charles as the man splashed more water on his face. “You looked like you might break your jaw in here… Or Frank’s, whichever opportunity came first.”

“Oh, I’m fine, Pierce,” Charles said casually, wiping down his face as he straightened and turned to the other man. “I’m only having my name and reputation dragged through the mud by an inferior doctor, if Burns can even be considered a doctor.”

Pierce gave Charles’ shoulder a firm squeeze. “It’ll all be fine.” He said simply. “There’s no way he’d look at Burns’ record and think that he didn’t deserve it.”

They stepped into the hallway to walk back to the room where the hearing was taking place and Charles snorted. “Of course, you cannot underestimate the Army.”

They sat down when the door to the room opened once more and Colonel Carmichael returned, giving a nod to the gathered officers. “Gentlemen, I have weighed the evidence carefully. Not merely the testimony, but the records of those involved.” The man sighed and folded his hands on the desk. “I have no doubt that Major Winchester is thoroughly unmilitary and that he has no regard for proper military procedure, as the records of his time as C.O. of the 4077th indicate.” Charles swallowed, his heart pounding as he stared at Colonel Carmichael calmly, waiting for his verdict. “But the records indicate that he's a topflight surgeon. Lord knows I wouldn't want to lead a company of Winchesters into battle but I'd sure as hell want him around when that battle was over. 

There was silence from everyone, relief palpable in the air, before Burns stood, clearing his throat. “Colonel, what do the records indicate about my surgical skills?”

Carmichael gave Burns a look. “If you hadn't been drafted as a doctor I think you'd have been assigned as a pastry chef. In my judgment, no case of mutiny exists and I'll advise that the charges against Major Burns be dropped. Court adjourned.”

Carmichael and the stenographer left the room, leaving the officers of the 4077th to congratulate Charles as he smiled weakly and nodded, shaking Potter’s hand as the man said, “I knew you’d come out of this.”

“You beat the rap.” Burns scowled, glaring at Charles, who looked down his nose at the other surgeon.

“I owe it to clean living.” He said simply, dismissive of the other man.

“Well, no hard feelings.” Burns said, shrugging his shoulders. “I guess it's not your fault justice got hoodwinked. You can't be blamed for trying to save your neck. I have a bone to pick with that Colonel.”

Hunnicutt stared at Burns with a shocked expression, clearly still unused to Burns’ belligerence. “Haven't you had enough?”

“He’s a glutton for punishment,” McIntyre murmured as he shook his head and rolled his eyes.

Burns scowled and stuck his tongue out at McIntyre before he continued, “Well, that's just it, sir. I won't allow his innocence to be a blot on my record!”

Potter watched as Burns went through the door that Carmichael had exited through, following the Colonel to harass him further. “Do you think we could sneak away and leave him here?” He asked with a weary sigh.

Pierce snickered. “Frank's too sharp for that. He always leaves a trail of bread crumbs.”


	33. Run For The Money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles receives a letter from his father, and a young soldier reminds him of home.

_Dear Charles,_

_Honoria has informed us that you have found someone in Korea. She has reassured us that this woman is an American, through and through, and not a Korean or Japanese woman that has attempted to escape that war torn hell via your fortunes or entrapping you with a baby. That all being said, I find myself quite disappointed to learn that your lady is a mere Corporal, not even a Major so that your statuses might be matched at least in the Army. Honoria has also informed me that this young lady has a penchant for dressmaking, though we have not been shown any photographs or sketches of her work and find this a questionable career choice for the potential future wife of a Winchester. We insist that you get this young woman to sign a formal prenuptial agreement, if your recent financial activity over the phone lines has not already drained your accounts into this young woman’s stockings._

_We look forward to hearing more developments on this relationship, even if such developments are to inform us of it’s cessation._

_Sincerely,_

_Charles Emerson Winchester II_

Charles stared at the letter in his hand, his lips pulled into a tight scowl as he folded the letter and slit it back into the fine, monogrammed blue envelope that it had arrived in. Part of him contemplated throwing the letter away. His blood pounding in his ears as he tossed the letter onto his desk, opening his envelope of dexies from where it practically lived in his breast pocket. He stared at the two pills that were left and carefully snapped one in half, breathing deeply before he collected the whole pill and swallowed it down. Charles sighed, closing his eyes, and decided that since he was a glutton for punishment he might as well torment himself even more. He carefully placed the letter in the cedar cigar box that Maxwell had given him to keep the insects out of his precious letters from Boston. Sometimes he imagined he could smell the change of seasons on the paper. A more resentful part of him worried that his father’s letter might contaminate the other more beloved correspondence from his sister. 

Speaking of which… He sighed as he stared at the tape reel tin that had arrived alongside the letter from his father. Honoria’s recorded letter would have to wait until his mood was less foul. There was only one cure for such rotten feelings, and that was Maxwell, but the young man was on K.P. duty and Burns had made it very clear that he would not allow for anyone to bother the cooks when they already had enough trouble making the inedible food that they already had. 

“Pierce,” Charles sighed as he walked into post-op. “Take a breather. I can’t stand the boredom any longer.”

“Two shifts in one day from the man who lives and dies by the nine-to-five?” Pierce raised a brow at Charles, taking in the man’s agitation as he paced and glared at the various charts, reading up on the patients. “Alright, but I won’t be gone for long.” Pierce leaned on the rail of a bed and looked at the young man within. “Don’t be scared of him, he’s a big teddy bear.”

“Pierce?” Charles called out and the other doctor turned.

“Yes, Charles?”

“You appall me.” Charles said simply before he continued on his search for a patient that needed tending to. 

After he had given all of the soldiers that needed it their medication, thrown blankets over those that complained about cold, and checked the blood pressure and pulse of every patient in the post-op ward, he fiddled with his watch, adjusting the time to match the one on the post-op wall down to the second. 

“Excuse me, Doctor?” A tall, thin man with Captain’s bars walked into the post-op and Charles raised a brow. “I’m Captain Sweeney, Engineers.”

“Hello.” Charles said as he capped his pen and tore up the beginnings of the letter he was trying to write to his sister. 

“You suppose I could talk to my men?” He asked, smiling up at the doctor in a way that set Charles’ teeth on edge.

“I see no reason why not, they’re doing very well considering a bridge was dropped on them.”

Charles sat back down, ignoring the visiting Captain as he did for most all of the C.O.’s that visited their soldiers. Usually it was posturing, pretending to care about the wounded young men, giving them just enough confidence that they mattered to the Army.

“And how about you, Palmer? You nice and comfy?” Sweeney asked, Charles scribbled out another line of his letter.

“Y-y-y-y-yes, sir.” A small voice said and Charles turned to stare at the smiling young man.

“Oh, that's good 'cause I certainly wouldn't want it bothering you that you almost cost three men their lives.” Sweeney snapped, glaring at the young man.

“B-b-b-but, I-I had no way of knowing that th-th-th-the b-bedrock w-was unstable.” Palmer’s eyes widened and he shielded his broken arm, as if expecting the man to damage the cast and the arm within.

Sweeney gave a coyote like snarl and glared at the boy, “Hell, I should have known better than to give any kind of responsibility to a dummy.”

Palmer lowered his eyes in shame. “I'm s-s-s-sorry, sir.”

“Well, a fat lot of good that d-d-d-does.” Sweeney mocked the young man and Charles stood, deciding to step in when the laughter of the soldiers and their equally cruel C.O. filled the post-op.

Charles’ hand clapped on Sweeney’s shoulder and he gave a polite smile to the man, “Excuse me, Captain Sweeney. May I talk to you for just a moment, please?”

“Sure, Major. What is it?” Sweeney smiled back, equally polite, his cruelty seconds before to the young Palmer seemingly forgotten.

Charles gestured to the lab, his hand on Sweeney’s shoulder turning into a tight grip. “Right this way, please.”

“Okay.”

They stood in the lab and Charles closed the door behind him, turning to stare at the Captain, towering several inches over the thin man. “Captain Sweeney, if you say one more unkind word to Private Palmer, I will personally write a report detailing your inhumanity, and I will have it placed in your 201 file where it will follow you for the rest of your career.” 

The Captain’s eyes widened briefly before they narrowed in fury. “But Major, that-”

Charles’ voice was cold, like a blizzard in the arctic. “Is that _clear_?”

“… Yes sir.”

Charles smiled, eyes narrowed at the other man. “Thank you.” He stepped out, Captain Sweeney quickly saying goodbye to his men before he opened the door to post-op. 

The door swung further open and Maxwell strode in, wearing his bright red dress, blue and red knit hat, and matching blue heels. He practically mowed down Captain Sweeney, who merely gaped for a moment before he left, the door slammed behind him. 

“What’s up with him?” Maxwell asked before he shook his head and began to shout, holding his tray laden down with cups of ice cream and plastic spoons. “Here we are, for your refreshment pleasure before we present the ravishing Boom Boom Goldfarb and a trained owl! Synthetic ice cream, synthetic sherbet, synthetic spumoni!”

Charles couldn’t help but watch Maxwell, accepting a cup of ice cream, or what passed for it in the Army. He wished he could steal a sweet kiss from the young man. 

Maxwell looked up at Charles, a delighted smile on his lips as he tossed another cup of ice cream at Charles. “Each and every cup contains a $5,000 pair of Swiss binoculars.” He turned to hand more cups out to the wounded. “Hey. This offer limited time only. Who wants melting ice cream?”

“Corporal, could you assist me with developing some x-rays?” Charles asked, gesturing to the hallway leading to the various rooms. 

“Okay, okay,” Maxwell smiled, turning to the room. “Everyone got their ice cream? All good? Okay!” He carried the tray along with him for good measure as he followed Charles. 

They left Nurse Whitfield in the post-op and Charles listened to the click of Maxwell’s heels on the wooden floor before he slid his palm over the young man’s flank. The moment the door to the darkened x-ray room was closed Charles grabbed at Maxwell’s hips, hefting him onto the stool where patients would sit while they were photographed. 

“You gonna take some chest pictures of me, Doctor?” Maxwell asked with a grin while the man slid between his legs. “Dirty pictures.” 

“There’s a thought.” Charles murmured, kissing the man firmly, eagerly. “How much longer on your shift?”

Maxwell groaned. “Burns has me there until dinner.”

Charles echoed the noise, kissing at Maxwell’s neck, jaw, making the younger man gasp and squirm against him. Strong fingers slid into Charles’ hair, tangling in the fine curls, Maxwell giving a firm yank when Charles’ teeth grazed over his jugular. “If I come back with a bite mark on my neck then Burns will have me on K.P. for the next year.”

“Well then I’ll have to…” Charles tugged at the neckline of Maxwell’s dress, gently inching it down so that he could suck and bite beneath the soft jersey of the younger man’s dress. “Make sure they aren’t visible.”

* * *

The next few days proved that Palmer didn’t want to talk to Charles. Didn’t want to talk to anyone when the baboon comrades of his would mock his stutter, call him Porky Pig, all at the obvious encouragement of Captain Sweeney. What Charles needed was a ruse, and ever since he had become friends with Maxwell at the beginning of his time at the M*A*S*H*, he had learned the art of making a believable one.

“Private Palmer?” He said, checking the boy’s chart as he stepped into post-op, wearing his white coat.

“N-n-n-now what?” Palmer sighed, scowling at his comic book and avoiding looking at Charles, who was collecting a wheelchair.

“Oh, it's nothing critical. Uh, Lieutenant, keep an eye on the ward, I’m going to take a few x-rays of Private Palmer here to see how he’s mending.” Kellye smiled and nodded as Charles stood over Palmer, smiling at the young man as he avoided Charles’ eyes. “Tell you what. Why don't we here give Captain Marvel the rest of the day off. Let him spend some time with Mrs. Marvel, all the little Marvels.” He placed the comic book aside gently and slid his arm under the young man’s leg and his back. 

“D-d-d-d-doc! I’m too heavy!” Palmer struggled, but Charles merely deposited him the few inches from the cot to the wheelchair. “Wow…”

Charles chuckled. “Soldiers aren’t the only people who get stronger during war.” Charles smirked as he wheeled Palmer out of the post-op. 

They went through the hallway into the lab, and Palmer frowned, looking around. “I don't see any x-ray m-m-machines.”

Charles gave the man an apologetic look. “Well, I must confess that the x-ray story was a ruse. “

“I d-d-d-d-don't understand.” Palmer looked uncertain, and Charles realized that he had likely heard nasty rumors from Burns and other members of the outfit that disliked Charles and Maxwell’s relationship.

“I just thought it, uh, would be better if this conversation took place out of earshot of your sniggering comrades.” He smiled reassuringly at the young man. “I notice you're a devotee of comic books.”

Palmer still looked suspicious, like a cat that had been kicked once too often. “S-s-s-so?”

“So...nothing.” Charles shrugged and smiled. “Uh, I'm all for losing oneself in the pure adventuresome fun of a firstrate Captain Marvel. “ It was the truth. Sometimes, as much as Charles liked more engaging media, comic books were a wholesome release, where the heroes always won and the bad guys were always defeated and the world was bright and warm, unlike this khaki and olive drab hell he had found himself in.

Palmer’s eyes lit up at that and he grinned at the man. “You read C-c-c-c-Captain Marvel? B-b-b-but you’re a do-do-doctor!” 

“Ever since he was a noncom.” Charles laughed softly and sat down on the stool next to the microscope setup, facing Private Palmer. “Of course, there are other sorts of literature which one can enjoy. Have you ever read the classics?

Palmer immediately cast his eyes down and shook his head. “No. I'm, uh, too d-d-d-dumb for that stuff.” It was Sweeney’s words, echoed from Palmer’s mouth. How long had he heard variations of that phrase, all through his life, that he believed it so readily?

“Ah. Quite the contrary.” Charles gave a gentle, reassuring smile to the young man. “I have read your record. You have an I.Q. that is well above average. The reason they put you in with the engineers.”

“I can-can-can-can't even talk.” Palmer shouted, tears brimming in his eyes.

“Palmer, it so happens that there is no correlation between intelligence and stuttering.” Charles shook his head and gave a brief laugh. “As a matter of fact, some of the world's brightest people have been stutterers.”

Palmer scoffed at that, rubbing at his eyes. “N-n-name one.”

“I'll name you several.” Charles tilted his head as he looked at the boy. “Demosthenes, Thomas Jefferson King George VI, Winston Churchill.”

Palmer was surprised at that, before he shook his head and doubled down with that army stubbornness that, if it wasn’t standard issue, seemed to be cultivated specifically by the army. “Even if I were sm-sm-smart, n-n-no one would know it 'cause I c-c-can't say anything.”

“Palmer.” Charles stopped. “Walt.” That made Palmer look up at him. “The point is that _you_ know it. You can aspire to a world that offers you a lot more than comic books.” Charles hesitated before he picked up the book he had left on the lab work table earlier, his fingers running over the cover slowly, memorizing it for the last time. “I want you to have this.” He handed it to the boy. “It's Moby Dick. That is a wonderful adventure.”

Palmer accepted the book, held it close, before his eyes widened and he shook his head, attempting to hand it back to Charles. “Th-this is real l-l-leather. I can't take this.”

Charles held his own hands away from the book. “Please. I want you to have it.” He smiled. “ _That_ is worthy of your intelligence.”

Palmer smiled slowly, gratefully, and held the book close to his chest. “Thanks, M-m-m-major.” A frown crossed his face as he looked up at Charles, confused and curious. “How come you're d-d-d-doin' all this for me?”

That made the doctor pause, his eyes turned away from Palmer, before he cleared his throat and stood, smiling as he moved Palmer’s wheelchair towards the door. “I think you should get some rest, uh, now.”

After his shift in O.R., which was interrupted every so often by Palmer asking him the meaning of a particularly difficult phrase or section of Moby Dick, Charles couldn’t help but feel exhausted, but as if he had done a good deed.

Kindness very rarely came naturally to him. Mercy, yes, healing, of course, but kindness was a rarity that he did not bestow on many. Maxwell had been the first recipient of it when Charles had arrived in Korea, and every so often a soldier would receive small amounts of the finite resource, but it was still something so very rare for Charles to give willingly.

He sat in his fatigues on his bed, and paused before he opened Honoria’s recorded letter, slotting the tape into his player before he laid down and listened, eyes closed, to her familiar, loving voice.

“My dear brother Charles. It was wonderful to receive your latest t-t-t-tape. I have so m-m-m-much to tell you. Last night was the beginning of the s-s-symphony s-s-s-season. The guest, artist was P-p-p-Piatigorsky…”

* * *

_To Corporal M. Klinger from the desk of Charles Emerson Winchester II_

_I have been informed that you are the young lady who has enchanted my son body, mind, and soul. This, of course, is a flaw that has come not from my son’s ill breeding but a patented rebelliousness that I as a father have failed to rid him of in his youth. While I have been indulgent of my son’s whims in the past, his carelessness with ladies of high breeding that have attempted to provide him with a marriage to someone of his equal status has left me with little patience for his current behavior._

_To speak plainly, Ms. Klinger, from what little I know of you, and from my son’s attempt to keep his relationship with you a secret from myself and the rest of my family, it is clear that you are not suitable for carrying on the Winchester name or line. You are, from my understanding, an army nurse and one that does not even conform to proper military order and regulation. There is no future for my son with you, and I hope that you do the right thing and realize that you come from two different worlds, and that such star-crossed relationships are almost always tragedies in the end._

_My daughter has informed me, in not so many words, that no matter what I might say to Charles that his intentions to marry you will remain steadfast and true. He has already made numerous arrangements, and while those might take some time to be undone, they are not permanent. In exchange for your cooperation and your dissolution of your relationship with my son, I am prepared to pay you a hefty sum. Name your price in your responding letter and it will be sent to the bank of your choice._

_Regards,_

_Charles Emerson Winchester II_


	34. Love in War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some struggles were never meant to be faced alone, and some prices could never be negotiated.

“Maxwell?” Charles called, knocking on the door. When he tried to open it, he found the door locked, something that had never happened before, even when they had been casual acquaintances. “Max?” He called softly, frowning. 

There was a soft sob on the other side of the door and Charles froze before he knocked again, more insistent this time. 

“Maxwell, open this door!”

“Go away!” Maxwell sobbed, his voice hoarse with tears and Charles felt his heart breaking at the sound. 

“Maxwell, it’s me, Charles, please, open the door.” He tried a different tact, and Maxwell’s sobs softened only slightly. “Darling, let me in, you know I cannot bear to hear you in distress.”

It took a few minutes, but Charles was patient, he could wait a lifetime for the other man.

When the door opened, Charles took in the sight of Maxwell, his hands shaking as he stared up at the surgeon. Charles bundled Maxwell inside, wiping at his runny mascara with his fingers, uncaring of the dark makeup smeared over his fingers as he gently cleaned up the younger man. 

“Tell me where it hurts, darling.” Charles whispered, his hands moving to press and examine Maxwell’s body, searching for lacerations, bruises, anything. 

“Here,” Maxwell choked, placing the man’s hand over his heart, tears running down his face. “It’s… it’s silly.” He whispered, sobbing softly. “So silly and stupid and I’m… I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, darling, if it upsets you it is not silly.” Charles kissed the man gently, drawing him close. “What happened, what is it, darling?”

Maxwell shook his head and sobbed, pressed his face to Charles’ chest as he spoke. “Just… Everything. The war, the cold, the lack of supplies, the wounded, the _people_ here!” 

“People, which people?” Charles asked as he scowled, his arms still wrapped tightly around the younger man. 

“Just… Everyone.” Maxwell sobbed, clinging to Charles. “This place is awful. I hate it so much. I just want to go home, I just want to go _home_!” Charles was certain that if Maxwell had magical ruby slippers that he would be clicking his heels desperately. 

“Names, Maxwell, give me names.” Charles said simply as he pulled Maxwell back from his chest, held him firmly and looked into those dark, tear-soaked eyes. 

Those eyes could never lie to him, not even when his voice said nothing. They flicked over to the vanity briefly and Charles turned, staring at the baklava tin that his mother had sent to him for his first birthday with the 4077th. It was filled with letters, but Charles was focused on one in particular. 

A blue envelope with a monogrammed flap that had been torn open by Maxwell. 

“When did you receive this?” Charles asked as he reached out and collected the letter, checking the postage mark. 

“Two weeks ago.” Maxwell murmured, his eyes downcast. “He had such great timing… Sending that right before our anniversary.”

Charles stared at Maxwell and suddenly everything made more sense. “You weren’t wearing your rings… You took meals while I was on shift…” Charles stroked his fingers over Maxwell’s jaw. “My, darling, what did he write?”

Maxwell looked down at his hands. “Nothing I didn’t think of all on my own.” He whispered, clinging to Charles’ fingers. “Just… He offered me money to leave you. To break everything off.” Maxwell sniffled and rubbed at his eyes, smearing his mascara and eyeliner even worse. “And I got to thinking, you know, if… If I went back with you… The entire letter he thought I was a woman. Thought that…” Maxwell sobbed. “That I wasn’t good enough. Me going back with you, he would think even less of me when he saw I was… Whatever I am.”

“Darling,” Charles kissed at Maxwell’s eyelids, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, his lips. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m not worth a whole family, Charles.” Maxwell whispered. “Parents, aunts, uncles, the whole lot… I’m not worth losing all that.”

“Don’t tell me what you are and are not worth,” Charles said softly as he kissed Maxwell again. “You are worth so much. Everything.” Charles stroked his fingers over Maxwell’s jaw, tilted his head so that the younger man could look at him. “I am not accustomed to wanting things that I cannot simply buy.” He leaned in for a long, slow kiss, when he pulled back Maxwell followed his mouth to softly brush their lips together. “You are priceless, Maxwell. I could never dream to put a dollar figure on what you are worth to me.”

Maxwell’s lower lip trembled and he wrapped his arms around Charles, pressed close to the man’s chest. “I’m not. I’m not worth all of that.”

“Give me a chance to prove to you that you are.” Charles murmured, kissing the man gently until Maxwell relaxed into his arms, clinging tightly.

* * *

Charles glared at the middle distance in the Officer’s Club, his fingers idly playing the piano. He had gotten some practice over time, but he was still nowhere near playing in a venue better than the Army. 

“What’s up, Chuckles?” McIntyre asked, sitting on the bench beside Charles. 

“Lookin’ a bit more morose than usual,” Hunnicutt added on. 

“Where’s the third stooge?” Charles asked with a scowl. “I’d rather get the ribbing over with now.”

“Geez, we just noticed that you were all alone. Haven’t seen you and Klinger out and about together.” McIntyre said, looking at the music Charles was attempting to play. “And here you are, playing some of Klinger’s favourites without him to sing accompaniment.”

Charles scowled, if Pierce was there he’d be less likely to talk, but McIntyre was a good man, had proven to be a good confidant in the past. So Charles pulled the letter from his father to Maxwell out of his pocket. He shoved it into McIntyre’s hands and the man read it while Charles carefully continued to play the music. 

“Jesus… Being rich ain’t for wimps.” McIntyre held the letter up to Hunnicutt.

“So he sent this to Klinger? Our Klinger?”

“And he didn’t tell me until two weeks later.” Charles sighed. “The worst part is that Maxwell _believes_ that…” He gestured to the letter, unable to find a word to describe his father’s crueler words. “Slander. Blackmail. _Dreck_.”

“Well, look, Charles, you know it’s garbage, but Klinger, he’s a sensitive guy.” McIntyre said as he gave Charles a sympathetic look. “And this place might have finally gotten to him. This could just be the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

“Look, whenever Peg and I get into an argument she bottles it all up.” Hunnicutt said as he leaned against the upright piano. “So I get in the way, and I keep asking her, until she tells me what it is that has her upset. Sometimes she even belts me a couple good ones.”

“Are you suggesting that I… Get into a fistfight with my husband?” Charles frowned at Hunnicutt.

“Maybe. Or maybe Max just needs a sign that he’s worth all this to you.” 

Charles was quiet for a long moment before he looked at the other two surgeons. “Could you two ensure that I have the Swamp to myself tomorrow night? Burns is in post-op, so you just need to distract Pierce.”

“Easy, we’ll get Zale and Kimble in on a poker game.” McIntyre grinned as he looked at Charles. “Knock ‘em dead, Chuckles.”

* * *

Charles was in the middle of cleaning the Swamp, Burns needling him as the man went between reading a letter from his wife and watching Charles “behave like a housekeeper”. 

The door to the Swamp crashed open and Charles raised a brow as he looked up at the man who came barreling in without regard for knocking or privacy. “Kim Chun Quoc at your service, Major, sir, and you too, Major!” The Korean man grinned widely at Burns and Charles, he was pushing a large baby pram, as usual, and Charles chuckled as he watched the man focus on Burns.

Burns scoffed, looking back at the letter from Louise, which must have been quite something from the way his beady eyes fixed on it. “Yes, yes, I know.”

Quoc gestured grandly to his pram, smiling as he looked at Burns. “Tiffany on wheels.”

Charles snorted, “Don’t waste your time on Burns. The most expensive thing he got his wife was a ten dollar watch.” 

“Why I - you - blow it out your ear holes, Winchester!” Burns stood, storming out of the Swamp.

Charles pulled out a dollar from his wallet. “A tip, for getting Burns to leave.”

“Sure you won’t put that money towards something else?” Quoc asked even as he slid the money into his pocket quickly before a silk red and yellow robe was pulled out, waved in the air near Charles like a flag. “A happy coat? Drives the honey’s nuts.”

“I don’t have a honey, Mr. Quoc.” Charles said simply as he looked back at the tent that was starting to look clean enough, waving his left hand at the salesman. “I am a happily married man.”

“Ah, for the little lady.” Quoc dug through his pram held up a string of pearls that made Charles pause. “Look at these, the oysters _cried_ when they gave them up.” 

Charles hesitated, but the man knew he had been caught when he held out his hand for the pearls, feeling the weight of them. “May I?” He held the strand up to his mouth and Quoc grinned brightly.

“Of course, the Major knows how to tell quality!” 

Charles ran the strand of pearls over his teeth and was shocked to feel the distinct grittiness that came with perfect, _real_ pearls. He looked at Quoc and asked, “How much?”

“$1500.” Quoc said without hesitation, waving a finger at Charles. “And I don’t haggle.”

“Mr. Quoc,” Charles said, taking that as a challenge. “I have a charge account at Tiffany. The one in New York.”

Quoc glared, “$800, but we didn’t haggle!”

“$500.” Charles said, feeling the strand in his fingers. 

“Sold, Major knows best!” Quoc said, holding out his hand for the money. Charles counted out the bills and passed them over. “Thank you, good sir.” Quoc said as he put the money in his lock box. 

“Mr. Quoc,” Charles hummed, looking at the pearls before he held up another hundred. “Does this strand happen to have a pair of genuine matching earrings?”

* * *

McIntyre and Hunnicutt had helped Charles contrive for Maxwell to go to the Swamp for a favor. 

When Maxwell arrived, Charles smiled at him, his long fingers held out to gather Maxwell’s fingers in his own. “Hello, Corporal.” He murmured as he leaned in to kiss at those strong, calloused fingers. The record player was playing Chopin, Nocturne No. 5 in F Sharp, and Charles drew Maxwell in.

The young man smiled, but resisted being held closer, his eyes avoiding Charles’ with a shyness that he hadn’t shown before. “I’m in here getting Trapper’s hat, the one with the feathers in it.”

“McIntyre already took it, Maxwell, I, ah, asked him to get you in here.” Charles leaned close, his lips brushing over Maxwell’s jaw softly. “Dance with me, darling?”

Maxwell resisted, but only for a few soft moments, his body turning so that he could rest a hand on Charles’ shoulder. Charles collected Maxwell’s other hand in his own, a broad palm pressed to the Corporal’s lower back. 

“I don’t know any fancy dances. All I can do is the jitterbug.” Maxwell confessed as he was guided through a few slow steps. 

“I’ll lead, all you need do is follow.” Charles smiled down at the younger man before he leaned in for a soft kiss, one that Maxwell returned only barely. “Do not let my father’s words worry you, Maxwell. Everything has been tied up with so much red tape that I couldn’t possibly lose you to something like a loophole.” 

“But what if… What if you change your mind before the war is over?” Maxwell didn’t look at him, his face tucked to Charles’ chest. “I’m not like Pierce or McIntyre. I can’t just go bouncing around from cot to cot.”

“I cannot do such a thing either.” Charles whispered, his lips pressed to Maxwell’s hair. “I could leave everything else behind in this miserable hell, except for you. Even if we went our separate ways after the war, I would beg you on my knees to come with me, and I’d never find anyone else to fill the void where you once were.”

Dark eyes looked up into his own blue and Charles smiled at Maxwell. “You mean that, Major?”

“Of course.” Charles kissed Maxwell. “Have you ever known me to give reassuring platitudes?”

“Not really… But there’s a first for everything.”

“Let my father believe he has a modicum of control over my life.” Charles whispered. “You and I both know that it is a farce that he is acting out on his own.” He lifted Maxwell’s hand, the one that wore the diamond ring and plain gold band that Charles had bought for him, and kissed at the knuckle of Maxwell’s ring finger. “This is proof enough to the whole world that I could not live without you.”

They danced together quietly, arms held tightly around one another, until the record played only silence, and they continued to gently sway and dance together in that deafening quiet. When the P.A. system crackled to life, Charles scowled, but merely led Maxwell through the door out into the compound as they raced to wounded, gave them their triage, and then went to scrub up. 

Hours of surgery later they would go to their separate tents, and the next morning Maxwell would awake to a string of real pearls and two real pearl earrings resting upon his vanity, with a note that said simply, “You are priceless, so this is only the beginning of my trying to be worthy enough to afford your love.”

And if Charles began to make a few discrete calls to his sister, to his lawyers, quietly stewing over his father’s hurtful letters, that was only his business.


	35. Check Ups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McIntyre goes home.

It was no surprise that Charles was assigned to examine the nurses, not when Pierce and McIntyre were lechers, Burns was abusive, and Hunnicutt blushed at the thought of seeing the female personnel that he had to work with on the daily naked. While he was not the friendliest person and his bedside manner did leave room for improvement, the nurses at least trusted him to not make a pass or give any inappropriate touches. What he was surprised about was the fact that he was also assigned to examine the other doctors. 

“Keep this between you and I, Winchester, but something is wrong with McIntyre.” Potter had said when he had given Charles his assignment that morning. “Now I don’t want Pierce and Hunnicutt scheming with him, and I don’t want Burns fouling him up even more. Just give him an appropriate physical examination and let me know if you find anything noteworthy.”

Which was how Charles found himself in the Swamp with his bunkmates, giving them all a raised brow. “You can all leave and take turns coming back, or I can put you all on an assembly line, whichever you prefer.”

“Pick me, first!” Pierce raised his hand, waggling his eyebrows at Charles. “Be gentle, I’m a virgin.”

“I wouldn’t believe that even if I _was_ born yesterday.” Charles said simply as he moved to Pierce’s cot, the man standing to undress and let Charles begin his examination. “You already submitted your blood for examination?”

“Yeah, Frank played Dracula and Hunnicutt, Trapper, and I played his blushing brides.”

“Oh, can it, Pierce!” Frank snapped from nearby. 

“Burns, how would you like a digital rectal exam?” Charles asked as he felt at Pierce’s lymph nodes, then checked his mouth. “Any swelling, difficulty swallowing?”

“Nah, not even out of the normal halitosis.”

“Good, good.” Charles made his notes then began to examine Pierce’s reflexes. It was a relatively quick examination, despite the man’s quips, and soon he had moved on to Hunnicutt and completed his examination in due course. 

“Well, that was refreshingly easy, despite Doctors being lousy patients.” Charles turned to Burns and raised a brow at him. “Burns, disrobe, please.”

“I don’t understand why Colonel Potter can’t do my examination! After all, he’s a Colonel, and you’re a Major, his examinations would be better than yours!”

“Burns, my quality of examination is only as good as your cooperation allows, so if you would drop your trousers, turn your head and cough, I can get this over with as quickly as I can.”

“And if I refuse?” Burns scowled. 

“Colonel Potter has told me in no uncertain terms that I am to examine all of the Surgeons.” Charles glared at the man and Burns fidgeted under the ice cold stare fixed on him. “That includes you, Burns, now let me examine you or do you want a rectal exam on top of everything else?” Burns seemed to decide that Charles’ current level of frustration was not nearly as bad as what might happen if he continued to squirm and cause trouble, so he removed his shirt, and allowed Charles to examine his eyes, ears, mouth, and neck.

“Geez, Chuckles, what’s gotten into you today?” Pierce asked. “You get the same bowl of hostility from the mess tent that Trapper got?”

“I do not see how it is any of your business, Pierce,” Charles put his stethoscope in and listened to Burns’ lungs. He rushed through the man’s examination before he dismissed him to write down his notes, Burns buckling his pants as he raced out of the tent to go to Houlihan. Or possibly Potter, it really depended on who he wanted to complain to. Charles paused before he sighed and rubbed his eyes. “If you must know, I’ve been corresponding with my father in regards to Corporal Klinger.”

“Ah, and how is the newest Mister-Missus Winchester?”

“He got letters from my father as well.” Charles scowled. 

“… Oh.” Pierce sounded truly chagrined at that and Charles looked over at the man before he shook his head. 

“Nothing that your sympathy can do for it.” He moved to McIntyre. “Alright, McIntyre, open your mouth and say ah.”

“Not a chance.” McIntyre sat in his yellow robe, refusing to look at Charles. “Nobody's examining me. This place is medically medieval.” He looked up at Charles and scowled. “The lab equipment went up San Juan Hill with Teddy Roosevelt. Most of you guys wouldn't know a disease unless it was social and there's not a clean finger in the whole camp.”

Charles raised a brow at the man. “Are you quite finished, McIntyre?”

“That's how I feel: To hell with it.” McIntyre crossed his arms over his chest and Charles sighed as he tapped his stethoscope on his palm. 

“Pierce, Hunnicutt?”

“Want us to hold him down for you?”

“Could you be a pair of dears and go take a walk through the minefield? McIntyre and I are going to have a talk.”

“And you don’t want us to hear his screams, gotcha.” Hunnicutt stood, holding his arm out to Pierce. “Hawkeye.”

“Beej.” The man looped his arm with Hunnicutt’s and the two of them fumbled their way out of the one-man doorway, leaving Charles and McIntyre alone in the Swamp.

Charles was notoriously patient and McIntyre knew that it was only a matter of time before he cracked under the other Bostonian’s eyes. “Don’t look at me like that, Chuckles.”

“Refusing a checkup?” Charles asked, arching one brow. “It doesn't make sense. It's a basic checkup, one we’ve done literally dozens if not hundreds of times.”

McIntyre glared at Charles in return, “What about you? Avoiding Klinger?”

“I am not _avoiding_ Klinger. He is avoiding me.” Charles frowned. “And you are avoiding the subject.”

McIntyre stared stubbornly at Charles before he worked his jaw and shook his head. “Okay.” He sighed. “I got a problem in my belly.” He pointed a finger at Charles and snapped, “but I don't want it diagnosed here because I don't want to be treated in this pigpen.”

“Pain?” Charles asked as he watched McIntyre. 

“Yeah, when I'm empty. Feels better when I eat.”

“Does it wake you up at night?” Charles asked, his mind racing through potential issues. He was better at thoracic surgery, but he had still gone through his residency as a general surgeon. 

“Yeah.” McIntyre sighed, gesturing to the still. “First I thought it was alcoholic gastritis. You know, we've been hitting the sauce pretty good lately.” 

“The royal we. I promised Maxwell I wouldn’t drink as much.” 

“But the symptomology is wrong.” McIntyre continued, rubbing at his stomach. “I've got heartburn that would light up the city of Toledo.” He pulled a bottle filled with antacid out of his robe pocket and handed it to Charles. “I've been taking this stuff here lately.

“Does that help?” Charles asked, holding the bottle for a moment.

“A little, but not enough.” McIntyre sighed and looked at Charles. “I think I got a duodenal ulcer.”

Charles stared at McIntyre before he slowly but surely felt a small smile spread over his lips.

“What's the smile for, Chuckles?”

“McIntyre… If you’ve got an ulcer, they’ll send you home.” Charles smiled. “That is a one million dollar hole you’ve dug into your stomach.”

* * *

Charles knocked on Maxwell’s door and waited until he heard the, “Come in.”

“Heard about Trapper’s ulcer.” Maxwell said, holding up his latest creation, a shimmering gold dress that trailed along the floor. “Made especially for his going away party.”

He still didn’t meet Charles’ eyes. He hadn’t in over a month. 

“Maxwell, this is _ridiculous_ and cannot go on any longer.” Charles stepped closer. “Ever since you got that ridiculous letter from my father you have acted as if I am a leper. You won’t work with me in O.R., you won’t take post-op shifts with me. You won’t even look at me in our off hours. You’ve been avoiding me for well over a month and I would like to know why!”

“Because I don’t want to be dropped right at the end of the war!” Maxwell snapped, he still avoided looking at Charles as he moved about the tent, picking out accessories for the party that night. “Because it would hurt less for you to realize it now that you’re better off back in Boston with some nice girl that is up on your level instead of stooping down to mine!”

“Why would I want that? What have I ever done that could possibly give you the impression that I wanted anyone but you? Has my gaze strayed? Have I ever wavered?”

“No, but-”

“Maxwell, do you know what my father wants?” Charles grabbed at the younger man’s arm, turning him sharply so that Maxwell was forced to look up at him, brown eyes wide with surprise at the rough handling. “He would have preferred that I was never born rather than have a homosexual son.” He would leave bruises, he was sure, but he couldn’t stop himself now that he had started. His heart pounded and he stared down at Maxwell with a wild look in his eyes. “When I was six years old they had the psychiatrists come examine me, ask me questions. Then the injections began when I was nine. I went off to boarding school and the first summer that I came back they realized that it had been a mistake. When I was sixteen they sent me to Bellevue for electric shock therapy in order to remove what they saw as a flaw, as a weakness.”

Maxwell stared up at him, eyes wide, but not in terror. A soft, gentle pity lived in his gaze as he listened to Charles, the man’s voice ragged as he confessed everything, feeling as if he might throw up.

“Maxwell, I have never felt more right, more _real_ and _human_ than when I have been with you.” He managed, his voice suddenly hoarse with emotion as he gripped those strong but small hands in his own. “I have always believed there was something wrong with me. That my father was right, except for when I was with _you_.” Charles’ fingers moved, cradled Maxwell’s face. “I became a thoracic surgeon because I was convinced that there was some defect of my heart. That I could find it and fix it.” He choked on his own words before he managed. “Loving you could _never_ be a defect, Maxwell. You gave me life. I breathed for the first time in years because of you. I felt my heart beat and it felt _real_ because of how it pounded when I first saw you.”

Maxwell was silent as he stared up at Charles, tears gathering on his lashes as he looked at the doctor that was falling to pieces before him. “Major… I’m…”

“Please, anything, but don’t make me live without you.” Charles whispered weakly, falling to his knees, mirroring the pose that he must have taken to propose to Maxwell at some point. He pressed kisses to Maxwell’s palms, to his wrists. “You can ignore me, I will never darken your doorway, never warm your bed again, but I cannot live without the sight of you, without the sound of your voice. I cannot lose you to my father, when I have lost so much else to him and his meddling.”

A sob filled the room, and Charles realized that it wasn’t his own, that Maxwell was looking down at him, tears rolling down his cheeks. “But what if… What if he… What if you’re ruined… Because of me?”

“Then we will start anew.” Charles whispered, kissing at Maxwell’s hands. “It does not matter, truly, because I would have _you_.”

* * *

They arrived hours late to the party, but when they did, Maxwell had a smile on his face that no one had seen in weeks. He smiled and gripped Charles’ hand tightly, dragging the taller man through the crowd, refusing to let him go, even to the point where Charles held and tilted the Corporal’s drink for him when they sat at the bar of the Officer’s Club. 

McIntyre saw them from where he was slow dancing with a very drunk Houlihan, her blonde head tucked under his chin as she babbled on about something, Burns fuming with jealousy nearby. Charles sat at the bar on the narrow stool and easily lifted the glittering Maxwell into his lap. The younger man smiled and crossed his legs daintily, one arm slung around Charles’ shoulders while the other hand held a coupe of what was most definitely not champagne but looked delightful in Maxwell’s dark, manicured hand. 

Pierce banged a wooden spoon on the bottom of a bedpan to gather everyone’s attention and stood, smiling at the crowd that had gathered. 

“As you all know, this is Trapper John's last party with us. While we're all saddened that he's leaving we're gladdened that he's going home to the land of the all-night generator.” Everyone laughed and cheered, Pierce smiling sadly at his friend as McIntyre lifted his own drink in a salute. “Good friend, good companion. He's taken a lot of the rottenness out of the war for all of us. We'll miss his stupid laugh. We'll miss his two good hands.” Pierce smiled and everyone else knew that something silent and unspoken had been slid in between the lines of the man’s speech. Verbal invisible ink, a confession that everyone and no one heard. He smiled broadly and tossed the bedpan and spoon aside, turning to Hunnicutt. “Now a few presents for the bar mitzvah boy.” Hunnicutt produced a stack of presents, grinning at McIntyre as Pierce grabbed the first one. “From the nurses, a pair of all-weather pajamas, tops only.”

“Hey, why tops only?” McIntyre asked as he looked at the gift. 

“You'll get the bottoms a week after you're home.” Raucous laughter filled the room and even Maxwell laughed as he watched McIntyre stuff the pajamas back into their gift box. “From the enlisted men, a matched pair of cockroaches bronzed and suitable for use as cuff links.” McIntyre laughed as he looked into the small box, where a pair of cockroaches really had been bronzed and turned into cuff links by some industrious Korean craftsman. “And from the hospital staff a record album for those quiet evenings after the day's surgery has been botched. Sonja Henie Sings _Figure Eights For You_.”

Charles smiled as he held Maxwell close, the two of them watching as McIntyre thanked the crowd, giving Pierce a tight hug before he hugged Hunnicutt as well, whispering something to the other man. 

Maxwell’s head leaned on Charles’ shoulder and he looked up at the man, eyes wide as he whispered, barely heard over the loud music and chatter. “Till death do us part, right? You promise? No one can change that?” It was such a small, vulnerable little question, but it held so much meaning.

“I promise,” Charles kissed Maxwell’s knuckles, ignoring the people around him. “I will never leave this place without you. You go where I go and vice versa.”

The tension of the last few weeks leaked out of Maxwell’s shoulders as he stared up at Charles, leaning in for a long, slow kiss from the man. “I love you, Charles. I’m… I’m so sorry.”

“We will make it through this,” Charles whispered back. “No matter what. We will do it together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Season 4


	36. Strange Bedfellows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Maxwell are pushed to take a big step in their relationship.

“Charles!” Hunnicutt groaned as Charles did his best to move silently through the Swamp, unable to keep the door from slamming shut in the vicious autumn breeze. “Can’t you just stay in one place?”

“What’s going on?” Pierce rubbed his eyes, rolling over in his cot. 

“The Thing That Stalks The Night has returned.”

“Chuckles, couldn’t you do what all of us do and just spend the night at Klinger’s place?”

Frank sat bolt upright and Charles sighed as he rubbed his eyes, listening to Frank snarl, “Disgusting, all of you are absolutely disgusting!”

“Takes one to know one, Frank.” Hunnicutt sighed as he turned his eyes back to Charles. “Seriously, Charles, just spend the night there. _Klinger_ doesn’t have a bunkmate to disturb.”

“He is also a Corporal. I don’t want to be caught off guard in an NCO tent. That has many questions associated with it that I do not want to answer.”

“Oh come on, questions from who? At this point I’m pretty sure the North Korean snipers that keep an eye on our camp know that you two are making the beast with two backs.” Pierce sighed. “Why don’t you talk to Potter about getting your own tent, then?”

“Because this camp is already overcrowded as it stands.”

“Why don’t you all just shut your yaps!” Burns snarled. “Some of us are trying to _sleep_.”

Charles sighed as he climbed into his bed, not bothering to change out of his rumpled fatigues. It was always difficult, leaving Maxwell’s warm cot halfway through the night in order to return to his own tent. They had agreed months ago that it was the better option than having to deal with awkward questions or dirty looks come morning. When it was dark out there was only ever one or two men on guard duty, and generally they reserved their dalliances for when Maxwell’s friends were scheduled for guard duty. They’d turn a blind eye on the sight of the Major walking back to his own tent. 

It made sense to ask Potter to move him into a different tent. Why wouldn’t he? The Swamp had been overcrowded before McIntyre left, and now it was still a mess of surgeons squeezed together like sardines. Potter would likely see to it that he got moved to his own tent, or he might move him in with Hunnicutt to a new location if he couldn’t justify it. 

That still left the question of Charles walking across the compound at night. It didn’t matter, Charles told himself with a silent sigh, it was not something he could fix in a day. He’d wait until the next lull in the battles fought not three miles away and then see what he could do about making the deplorable living arrangements in the M*A*S*H* more bearable.

* * *

Maxwell never missed his shifts. He might arrive slightly late, getting his seams straight or applying his makeup or searching for the other half of a pair of shoes, but he never missed a shift. Be it guard duty, K.P., O.R., post-op, or some menial task that Burns had concocted for him. 

When half an hour into post-op, Charles looked up and saw that the man had not arrived, he became worried, but didn’t say anything more than asked one of the corpsmen passing through to go alert Corporal Klinger that he had a shift in post-op he was expected at. When he heard a commotion outside he abandoned his post inside the hospital to see what was happening. 

“Get him down from there!” Potter barked. “Come on, up and at ‘em!”

Charles looked around, then followed Potter’s gaze and felt his stomach drop. Maxwell was on a plank that had been placed, precariously, over the basketball hoop, his limbs dangling off the edge, dressed in nothing but his thin night gown. In the crisp autumn air, Charles could already see the tell tale beginnings of frost bite on the young man’s toes and fingers, and his breathing was shallow at best. He had a history of pneumonia, of lung issues, and even now the barest beginnings of a chill had sent him into fits of coughing during the night. Straminsky was trying to get a ladder up enough that they could get the Corporal down safely, while below, Supply Sergeant Zale, despite his distaste for Maxwell, was attempting to pile up extra cots to break Maxwell’s fall if he did end up tumbling down off his perch.

“Careful, you two, careful!” Potter shouted and Houlihan came running over with a field kit, ready to move into action once the Corporal was down from his treacherous height. “Is he breathing?”

“I can’t tell, sir!” Straminsky said nervously as he reached over, trying to grasp Maxwell’s leg to pull him over. “He’s not moving at all.”

“The cold probably got to him. How long has he been up there?” Potter asked, turning to look at Charles. 

“I…” Charles felt the blood drain out of his face. “I didn’t see him last night.” He whispered, his entire body feeling cold. He’d had a week to talk to Potter. They hadn’t had a lull, yet, but he had had plenty of opportunity to bring it up, to tell him, to ask for them to share a tent, or for him to be given his own. “He had a guard shift until ten last night, but he’d been working since seven, I assumed he’d want peaceful rest.”

“Well, can’t blame you for thinking that, but clearly - Private, look out!”

Maxwell fell from the perch and landed on the mattresses with a loud thud, but thankfully no cracks were heard from either him or Zale. Charles raced over along with Potter and Houlihan, grabbing at the man’s wrist before he pressed his head to Maxwell’s chest. 

“He’s far too cold.” Charles said, removing his white lab coat in order to wrap his love tightly within it. “He’s been out there all night at this point.”

“Someone get the sink in the kitchen cleaned out, scrub it up and get it as sterile as you can, fill it with warm water and for god’s sake _step on it_!” Potter shouted.

“What’s going on?” Pierce and Hunnicutt came racing over from O.R. Their gloves removed, but still scrubbed up from the procedure they had just finished. 

“Someone put Klinger up a pole. Get x-ray up, we’re going to make sure he’s okay.” Potter’s face was tight with worry. As close as he was to Corporal O’Reilly, he did still have a soft spot for Maxwell, who he had once proclaimed looked like his son but dressed like his wife. Charles looked down at Maxwell, cataloging the split lip, black eye, and broken nose that the young man had sustained. His knuckles were also split, a few of his well-manicured nails were broken off past the quick, he had clearly gotten his attackers well. “I want to know who did this and I’ll see them in the stockade before the week is out.” Potter growled as Maxwell was moved onto a stretcher and carried, like he had carried others before him, to the x-ray room. 

“I feel that it will be easy to find his attackers, Colonel.” Charles said simply as he stood, ready to follow Maxwell as he went. 

“How’s that?”

“Maxwell’s ring.” Charles said simply. “It would leave a distinct imprint on his attackers if Maxwell punched them. Conduct an inspection across the camp.”

Potter looked at Charles with a measuring look before he said, “Every so often you surprise me, Winchester.” He nodded. “I’ll do that, you go keep an eye on things with Klinger, and I’ll send Burns to take over in post-op.” Charles turned to leave with a respectful nod. He’d never salute anyone with real respect, but Potter was a good man. “And, Winchester?”

“Sir?”

“After you’ve got his chart filled, come talk to me. Married couples shouldn’t have to sleep in separate quarters.”

* * *

“I don’t see why _he_ gets his own tent and I still have to share with you two degenerates!” Burns snapped as he watched Charles pack his things into his footlocker. His cot would be moved by a corpsman, but Potter had told him to at least get things easy to move. 

“I don’t have my own tent, I will be sharing with Corporal Klinger.” Charles said simply. “Colonel Potter has made it clear that he will need some tending to after his assault, I’m in charge of keeping an eye on him through the night.”

“Oh, sure, that’s the excuse you’re giving, but we all know that you’ll be sleeping in the same _cot_ as him, doing unspeakable things to a young soldier in this man’s army.”

Hunnicutt looked at Burns with a raised brow. “You should speak a few of those things, Frank.”

“Can it, Hunnicutt!” Burns shouted before he stood and stalked over to Charles. “I think it’s disgusting what you’re doing to that misguided, disturbed young man! Before you got here I was _this_ close to getting him out of that dress!”

“ _Frank_ , if only I’d known.” Pierce said with a wide-eyed look. “All those times we shared the same casualty, where I slept with your shaving brush under my pillow.”

“Shut up, Pierce!”

Charles slammed his footlocker shut and then turned to Burns, his eyes blazing with absolute rage that he couldn’t contain any longer. “This is all _your_ fault.” He hissed at the other surgeon, and Burns took a cautious step back. 

“ _Me_?”

“You walk around, talking about Maxwell and I, telling people what you think of us, saying that we don’t deserve to breathe the same air as all the good clean cut American boys, that the Army shouldn’t suffer _our kind_ in the ranks.” Charles clenched his fist and Pierce stood, prepared to stop him from punching the other man once more. “Stop complaining about my leaving this tent and accept it as the blessing it is, for all of us.”

He stepped out into the compound, not stopping until he was at post-op, where Maxwell was laying. 

Two broken ribs and his broken nose had been set, his contusions were checked over and treated to the best of their ability, and a few stitches had been given across his scalp where someone had clearly struck him with the butt of a rifle. Charles carefully ran his fingers through the dark patch of hair where he had carefully done the stitches. He had trimmed as little hair as he possibly could in order to do the stitches, his hands steady as anything, but his entire heart trembling the whole procedure. 

Potter had lined up every man in camp and ordered them to remove their shirts, had given them examinations until he found two men with the distinctive scratch marks and contusions that would indicate where Maxwell had given as well as he got, had landed a punch. Charles didn’t know what happened to them, just knew that Potter would take care of it. All he had to do was take care of Maxwell.

It was dark in post-op and Pierce was due on shift any minute now. Houlihan was keeping an eye on the patients, and when she saw Charles, sitting on a crate and hunched over Maxwell’s body, she came over, her footsteps steady and sure as she approached. 

“Hey,” She murmured, resting a hand on Charles’ shoulder. He shrugged her off and she accepted that, tucking her hands into her fatigue pockets. “He’s going to be okay.”

“He was up on that platform the entire night.” Charles whispered. “And I didn’t even _notice_ when I walked past it to get to post-op this morning.” 

“No one noticed, Winchester, that’s not your fault.”

“I should have gone to check on him after his shift. I should have _been_ there.” Charles clutched at Maxwell’s hand, only to loosen his grip after a moment. “I promised to care for him, to protect him.”

“You can’t blame yourself,” Houlihan said firmly. “You didn’t ask for him to be hurt. And you trusted your fellow soldiers to not harm him. You couldn’t have known they’d do something so blatantly outside of regulation.”

“I break regulations just by existing here,” Charles shook his head as he rested his head against Maxwell’s bandaged knuckles. “I remember… Weston. George Weston.”

“I remember him too, that nice boy.”

“He talked about how his outfit assaulted him, beat him to that pulp we found him in… I just thought that since this was a _hospital_ that the soldiers here would be better than that.” He shook his head and sighed. “But with Frank Burns preaching his opinions on Maxwell and I… How could I have been so blind?”

“Frank?” Houlihan asked softly, surprise evident in her tone. 

“He has encouraged the guards, the regular army members of our outfit, to take opportunities where they can. Maxwell had a few bruises here and there before, but never this bad. Never enough to report.”

Houlihan’s expression hardened and she whispered, “I see… I’ll talk to Frank.”

“If you do he’ll become even more insufferable.” Charles sighed. “As if I’ve turned you against him.”

“Well, to be honest, you’re not the one to do that.” 

Charles looked up at her in confusion and she smiled, reaching into her pocket. A letter was produced, and the clumsy chicken scratch inside was quickly deciphered as a love letter, or as close to one as a career military man could make.

“Penobscott?” He asked with a smile up at Houlihan. “He seems… Charming.”

“Very,” Houlihan smiled as she sat beside Charles. “He’s very handsome. And he outranks me. I could never marry a man who didn’t outrank me.”

“Explains your obsession with Burns becoming Colonel Burns.” Charles handed back the letter. “What are your plans?”

“Burns is married.” Houlihan said with a sigh. “And as much as he complains about… his wife…” Even after so long, she still couldn’t say the name of Mrs. Burns. “He wouldn’t leave her for me.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” Charles agreed gently as he looked at her. “You deserve someone who loves you, Houlihan. Everyone does. Burns merely chose poorly.” 

Houlihan ran a hand through her hair before she looked up at Charles, who had gently moved back to holding Maxwell’s hand. “I don’t understand how you could make such a decision so quickly.”

“It wasn’t quick.” Charles said simply, his voice low, barely audible, as he watched Maxwell, hunched like a gargoyle tracking the young man’s labored breathing. He would need an oxygen treatment when he woke. “I had been looking for him my whole life. Every person I ever looked at, I ever hesitated over, has been a pale imitation of him.”

Houlihan was quiet before she asked, “What are you going to do?”

“When?” Charles sighed.

“You could get discharged, both of you. If you said that you were-”

“Don’t say the words out loud.” He cut her off, his fingers tight on Maxwell’s own. “If you do we could both be ruined.”

Houlihan remained beside his side for some time before she gave Charles’ shoulder a squeeze. “You should rest.”

“I can’t.”

“Try.”

* * *

“Major?” 

Charles sat up from where he was laying on one of the beds beside Maxwell’s. “Are you hurting?” Charles asked as he moved to kneel beside the bed. There were only three patients in post-op, two of them were sedated, and one was on so much morphine he couldn’t even begin to care about the world surrounding him. 

“A little,” Maxwell whispered, his voice hoarse as he began to cough. “What happened?”

“That’s what we want to ask you. We found you unconscious above the basketball hoop.”

Maxwell frowned, rubbed his eyes with one hand, before he sat upright. “My ring-”

“I have it. We had to remove it to set your fingers. You broke them.”

Maxwell relaxed, looking at Charles. “Don’t remember much of what happened… Was headed back to bed after I finished patrol, got jumped.”

Charles gently took his stethoscope and placed it against the younger man’s chest. “You spent the entire night up there, then. We’ll need to give you an oxygen treatment, and you’ll be off duty for the week while you recover.”

“What about you?” Maxwell asked softly.

“I’ll be caring for you in our tent.”

“Our?” Maxwell asked, blinking owlishly up at him. 

“Colonel Potter was not impressed with me leaving my husband to sleep alone at night.”

Maxwell stared at him before he gave a shaky smile, an attempt at a joke. “If I’d known that all it took was getting beat up, I’d have gotten the shit kicked out of me long ago.”

* * *

It was a revelation to wake up next to Maxwell without being in Tokyo. 

Charles kissed the man deeply, tasting the split in his lip, but also the sweetness of the cognac that lingered on his mouth from the night before. It was a few moments of soft kisses before Maxwell’s eyes opened, like sleeping beauty’s lashes fluttering open after her prince had awoken her. 

Dark lips curled into a soft smile and Charles gently stroked his fingers over Maxwell’s chest, feeling his heart beating beneath the thin silk of his negligee. “How do you feel, Darling?”

“Better with you here.” Maxwell smiled softly. 

He had played imperious lady of the house the day before, sitting on the cot and directing Charles as to what needed to be moved where, how to set up the tent to accommodate both of them. Charles’ footlocker had been placed at the foot of the cot, and his own cot had been slid in next to Maxwell’s, giving them a wider cot to share. The mattresses had been strapped together as much as they could, and sheets had been sewn together and layered up to make the entire construction stable enough for both of them. 

“I have a shift in O.R. today.” Charles murmured. “On call, so I will have to leave when they need me.”

“That’s fine.” Maxwell kissed Charles gently as his bandaged hand cradled Charles’ face. “You’ll have to come back after your shift. You’ll always come back now.”


	37. Change Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the camp changing from red scrip to blue, greed brings out the worst in some people.

“I hate scrip change.” Maxwell sighed as he smacked down the next pile of bills from his savings. “I hate that we have to use this stupid… _Monopoly money_ at all! Look at this!” He held the money up to Charles. “Does this look like real cash? I like my filthy lucre to _feel_ like real money. To be able to rifle it by my ear and hear those crisp bills snap _proper_.” Max rubber banded another pile of bills. “That’s four hundred so far.”

“Who knew you were such an industrious little saver.” Charles hummed with a smile as he looked at Maxwell, the younger man sitting in a sundress as he counted out more of his scrip.

“Well, Major, every time you give me money for fabric and stuff I just toss the money I would have spent on that into the savings tin.” He rattled the tin can he had scrounged from the kitchens with a smile. “You’ve supplemented all my savings so far.”

Charles chuckled as he tied the latest bundle of his own money into a stack of hundred. “It seems that our marriage has done quite a bit of improvement on your finances.”

“What’s the point of marrying rich if I don’t get that benefit?” Maxwell asked with a grin as he helped Charles count and stack his own scrip. 

“Certainly, certainly, you marrying rich is like me marrying a lovely young catch. It isn’t everything, but certainly it helps.”

Maxwell laughed and kicked at the man’s leg under the small table they had managed to barter for from Zale. Part of it had been a strong negotiation from Charles, and when that had failed, Maxwell had threatened the man.

“Tell me, Maxwell,” Charles asked as he smiled at his young husband, drawing Maxwell into his lap with a firm grip on a slim ankle. “If you could have anything here, what would it be?”

“Other than a letter saying we’re going home, that it was all a terrible mistake?” Maxwell smiled as he settled on Charles’ lap. “Pink satin. With crystals that I can sew into it. Something to liven up the lines at the mess tent.” He thought about it some more. “I’d like to hear Arabic again.” He whispered, smiling into the distance. 

“Arabic?” Charles asked as he looked curiously at Maxwell. “I miss hearing my family talking in Arabic, chattering over one another.” He smiled and looked at Charles. “Thanksgiving was always nuts, with Ma shouting at my Uncle Abdul and everyone trying to elbow their way over to the sideboard to get the barout del batata.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s this really spicy lamb, it’s got potatoes with it, I think you’d like it.”

“You’ll have to ask your mother for the recipe.”

“You kidding? I have it memorized by heart. That and djaj meshwi, I can make that one so well your eyes will roll back.” Maxwell smiled as he leaned in to kiss Charles. 

“What else do you miss?”

“Just… Home,” Maxwell gave a small smile. “Everything about home. The smell of incense, of food cooking throughout the day. The sound of people, of life, of the city, my Ma’s swing records playing, everything.” Maxwell’s smile turned wistful as he stared into the middle distance. “My Ma hasn’t moved the quilt from my bed yet and sometimes I have to keep myself from sending for it. She made it out of the scraps of my first dresses.”

“Beads and sequins and cottons?”

“You know it, Major.” Max smiled as he leaned in to cuddle closer to Charles. They took a moment to adjust, Charles’ legs stretched out so that he could prop his feet on the other chair while Maxwell shifted to straddle his lap, arms around Charles’ neck so that his fingers could toy in the fine curls at the base of Charles’ neck. 

“You’d breathe quite a bit of life into Beacon Hill with all of that… Quilts and cooking and swing music and Arabic.”

“Is that a joke, Major?” Maxwell asked with a squeeze around the man’s neck. 

“No, an honest desire to see you in my home.” Charles smiled gently as he stroked over the younger man’s back. “Why do you keep so much savings, Maxwell?”

The young man tensed before he breathed deeply and tucked his face against the Doctor’s neck. “Because if… If this all goes to hell then I’ll… have something to start over on.” 

“Maxwell… Darling…” Charles kissed Maxwell gently before he reached out and began shuffling money into the money tin. “Let’s see… One, two, three, four, five… And six.” He gently pushed Maxwell away before he handed him the tin now stuffed with army scrip. “One thousand dollars. And it is yours.” Charles smiled. 

“Major, that’s _your_ money!”

“No, it is _our_ money.” Charles looked at Maxwell. “Everything that is mine is yours and everything that is yours is mine. That is marriage. But this… This is only yours. A dowry of sorts. If things do turn sour, and they wont,” He gripped Maxwell’s fingers tightly in reassurance. “Then you at least have this.”

Maxwell stared at Charles, before he leaned in for a soft kiss. “You’re one of a kind, Major, you know that?”

Charles smiled as he kissed Maxwell. “We’re a matched set, you and I.”

* * *

“Major!” Maxwell came running into post-op, causing Charles and Burns to both look up from where Charles had been handing over patients to Burns for his shift. 

“You’re out of uniform, _soldier_!” Burns sneered as he glared at the man. 

“Shut up, Burns,” Charles scoffed. “What’s wrong, Corporal darling?”

“The money!” Maxwell whispered, his eyes wide. I had it in my purse and I gave it to Major Houlihan to hold onto while I went on K.P. duty, if I ran overtime she’d go exchange it for me, you see?”

“What happened, Maxwell?”

“She doesn’t know! It was in her tent and she stepped out to grab a shower, left the purse there, then it was gone! Her scrip took a powder too!”

Charles scowled, handing the patient chart over to Burns. “If you have any questions, _read_ the chart. I know that is difficult for you, but sound out the words.” 

Houlihan looked absolutely wrecked, and her tent was in no better condition as she tore it apart looking for the money. Even Father Mulcahy was assisting her in the endeavor, no corner of the tent going untouched as they worked through it. 

“Father, you really don’t have to help.”

“I’m just so shocked!” The priest said as he turned to face Charles and Maxwell, his eyes blazing as his face turned red with his fury. 

“Father, we’ll get it back, even if I gotta break a few kneecaps!” Maxwell said with a smile, attempting to reassure his friend.

“Well, I know it’ll come back, but I’m just so appalled at this venal breach of one of God’s commandments!” And to one of our own!”

“Father, please, Bishop Sheen couldn’t get the culprit to turn that money over now. He’s probably hot footed his way across Korea by now.” Charles sighed as he looked at Houlihan’s ransacked room.

“Bishop Sheen…” Mulcahy blinked owlishly before he grinned. “That’s it!”

The small, wiry father barreled out of the tent, and Charles turned to Houlihan, who looked up at him with an apologetic look. “I’m _so_ sorry, Charles! I thought it would be safe in here, everyone knows not to come into my tent, and it was just for ten minutes.”

“It’s not your fault, Major Houlihan.” Maxwell tried to smile, but couldn’t make it. 

“I’ll pay you back, I _swear_.”

“The money isn’t the issue, Houlihan, it’s the _principle_ of the matter.” Charles scowled. 

Before the other Major could say anything the P.A. crackled to life. “Attention, all personnel. Well, uh, not all personnel. This is Father Mulcahy, addressing the one personnel who stole the money entrusted to Captain Pierce. You may think you've reaped a profit by this act, but as ye sow, so shall ye reap!” Mulcahy’s voice rose, sped up in his anger. “Robbery itself is a sin, but robbery of your comrades-in-arms is an abomination before the Lord and a really dirty trick! Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord! Oh, ye generation of vipers! And he who blasphemeth against the Holy Spirit better that man had never been born!” Mulcahy’s voice cracked before he cleared his throat and finished with an awkward. “Well, uh, bless one and all.”

Maxwell looked over at Charles before he smiled. “Maybe that will fix it?”

“I doubt it, Maxwell, but perhaps it will put the fear of god into the thief.” Charles smirked. “Or the very least fear of Father Mulcahy.”

Maxwell wrung his fingers as he looked up at Charles. “I gotta go back to K.P.. They’re gonna start serving up lunch.”

“Darling, don’t worry, I shall exchange what money I kept left over, and then call up my stock broker in Boston. I will sell off a few stocks for some fast cash and we can quickly replenish your savings.” Charles leaned in to kiss Maxwell gently, uncaring of Major Houlihan witnessing the soft exchange. “Off you go, darling.”

Houlihan wrung her hands as she looked at Charles. “I’m so sorry, Winchester.”

“I know,” Charles said simply. “But I had hoped that I Maxwell’s trust in you had not been misplaced, or I would have held onto the money myself.”

“I promise to make it up to you.”

“I await to see how you intend to do so.” Charles turned and dismissively waved his hand as he walked out of the other Major’s tent. 

The P.A. system crackled to life, “Listen up folks, time for the scrip exchange, please form an orderly line.”

Charles turned towards the exchange station and sighed at the sight of the stampede that raced over, making his own way at a more leisurely pace. It would take some time to get order amongst the mob, and the MPs wouldn’t shirt military order for anyone. As the line was straightened out, the MPs ensuring that people were in two clearly defined columns, Charles heard a huff and boots stamping on the ground behind him. Glancing over his shoulder he scowled at the sight of Major Burns standing not two feet behind him.

“This is going to take forever,” Burns scowled as he clutched at a lock box. “Don’t they know I’m a Doctor! I have places to be!”

“I’m sure they are not enjoying this tedious process any more than we are.” Charles sighed as he turned to face the platform. 

“Easy for you to say, you’re in front of me.”

“For god’s *sakes*, man, do you want to switch places?” Charles looked back over his shoulder and caught the way Burns’ face paled and his expression went through a rather suspicious range of emotions.

“No, no, I’m fine here.”

Charles scoffed. “Major Burns, I assure you, Maxwell’s light-fingered tendencies have not rubbed off on me, I will not rob your money belt as you walk by me.”

“Can it!” Burns snarled. “I’m fine here!”

“Then do *shut up* and wait your turn, you cretin!” Charles snarled right back, causing the MPs at the platform to glance over briefly, sensing the hostility in the air like a pair of well trained bloodhounds.

It was an hour of waiting, the line seemingly endlessly stretched before him, but by the time he arrived to exchange his own cash he knew he would be finished shortly. He only had two hundred in the previous scrip, his leftover poker money after Maxwell’s savings had been filled to the brim, and the MPs seemed almost relieved at the relatively small amount. The thousand dollars was a severe loss, but it was not everything. Still, it bothered him, itched at the back of his head as the MP exchanging his scrip finished counting and gestured for him to step aside for Burns to have his turn.

As Charles walked away from the table, still mulling over the theft, he heard the MP behind him let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of dough, Major Burns.”

Burns let out an annoyed groan and pitched his voice low. “Shut up and exchange it. They’re all in bundles of hundreds.”

Charles turned and his eyes narrowed as he saw the man exchanging the money that Max had tied with his purple dyed rubber bands, the red scrip crinkled from Maxwell’s pockets and curled from being stored in Maxwell’s savings tin can.

“Major Burns?” Charles called, standing beside the platform set up to perform the scrip exchange, the two MPs turned their heads to look at him but didn’t move from their seats. “Where did you find that money?”

Burns’ face went pale once more, and Charles could more clearly read guilt in his shifting, beady eyes. “None of your business! I saved it!”

“Well, it looks remarkably like the money that Corporal Klinger had entrusted to Major Houlihan to exchange for him.”

“That little fink employed you to try and bully me out of my money, Winchester?” Burns scoffed. “Besides, this happens to be _my_ money that I stored at Major Houlihan’s tent.”

“Really, because it looks much like the money that Maxwell Klinger had stored in his silk purse.”

“It was the beaded purse, numbnuts.” Burns snapped, only to freeze and realize the mistake he had made in front of the entire camp, and the MPs. 

Charles held out his hand with a small, triumphant smirk. “Hand over the money, Burns, and it will just be a favor that you did for Corporal Klinger and Major Houlihan.” Burns scowled, but reluctantly handed over the money, the MPs giving him a look before Charles gave a polite smile at Burns as he snatched away the massive stacks of money. He paused, then passed over Houlihan’s missing four hundred and said, as casually as he could manage. “Better go grovelling back to Margaret, Burns.”

Burns paled even more at that, but ran away from the platform, stumbling to get to Houlihan’s tent. Even as he walked past, Charles could hear Burns whining, “honey bunches, I just wanted to do you a _favor_ , how was I supposed to know that other money wasn’t yours?”

He made a quick detour to the tent he shared with Maxwell before he began the brisk, brief walk across the compound to where Maxwell was in the mess tent, serving up lunch to the entire camp. Half of them chatted about the exchange and the other half talked about Father Mulcahy’s earlier P.A. announcement and his righteous fury. Walking through the chow line, Charles smiled at Maxwell as the young man gave him an apologetic look. 

“Sorry to add insult to injury, Major, but it’s hash for lunch.”

“Oh, don’t look so glum, darling.” Charles smiled as he held up Maxwell’s purse. “Take a look in there. Someone generously returned your savings, all exchanged in new scrip as well.”

“Wow!” Maxwell grinned widely as he looked inside his purse. “Father Mulcahy!” He bounced on his heels. “I gotta tell the Padre about this!”

“You do that, Corporal.” Charles smiled at his young husband. “I will await the end of your shift, I have another surprise for you at home this evening.”

Maxwell flushed and Straminsky next to him gave a chuckle at the suggestion. 

“Steady, Straminsky, nothing obscene so don’t tease my poor darling.”

“Yes, sir.” Was the quiet response, tinted with a laugh before Charles took his tray to head over to the end of the mess tent. 

As usual, he didn’t eat much, but he did sit down and choke down what he could so that his hunger was not nearly as gnawing and he could share the treats that Honoria had sent him from Boston. After he ate an acceptable amount of unacceptable food, he left to go to the tent and smiled as he began his preparations. 

A brand new record was placed on the player, prepared to be played as soon as Maxwell was home, the feast for the senses that Honoria had sent was spread on their small table, the cans and jars still closed to prevent any insects from getting in or summoning any of the rats that lurked about the camp. He had even managed to get his hands on a bottle of real red wine from a European vineyard, something that had cost him a pretty penny to get through the mail, but a bribe here or there always lubricated his packages through in quick succession. Charles began to quickly strip out of his fatigues, bending to open his footlocker and retrieve his robe. He hesitated when he saw a simple blood vial that he had pilfered from supply, with over a dozen little white pills neatly stacked inside. He really shouldn't... But with the events of the day, who could blame him for wanting a small pick-me-up? Especially when Maxwell would almost certainly want to enjoy having a relatively early evening, free of guard duty.

After he swallowed down only one of the pills, Charles changed into his blue robe and settled down with the ragged copy of _A Picture of Dorian Grey_ that he had reread probably eight times by now. He was sure that by the time the end of the war did eventually come that he’d be able to recite the entire book by memory. 

“Honey, I’m home!” Maxwell called, posing in the doorway in his pink sheath dress with the riot of ruffles along the neck and hem. He paused at the domestic sight before him, his smile turning to something awed. “What’s all this?”

“Greek olives, some canned squab that will have to substitute for the real thing, candied oranges, and if you would forgive the faux pas of serving red wine with squab, some real wine that is not dyed gin.” Maxwell stepped in just as Charles reached over to put on the record player, the volume turned low so that Cab Calloway singing _Minnie The Moocher_ began to play. “And swing records playing in the evening.”

Maxwell grinned broadly at the sound of the music, and while Charles had not been sure what to expect, Maxwell barreling into him to give him a deep kiss was not it. “I love it.” He whispered against Charles’ lips before he bit his lower lip and grinned. “I got something for you too.” He collected a paper-wrapped package from inside his own footlocker and grinned. “You gotta close your eyes, Major.”

Charles covered his eyes and closed them, listening to the tantalizing rustle of paper, the sound of fabric hitting the ground as Maxwell undressed. 

Cab Calloway sung in the background, wailing out about the infamous Minnie. _”She messed around with a bloke named Smokey. She loved him though he was cokey. He took her down to Chinatown, and he showed her how to kick the gong around.”_

“Alright, Major.”

Charles removed his hand from over his eyes and couldn’t help but stare at the sight of the young man before him, a translucent red chiffon boudoir dressing gown, edged with thick red faux fur at the cuffs, collar, and the delicately ruffled hem drew the eye to Maxwell’s legs. Beneath the chiffon Charles could see red silk and lace underthings and couldn’t help but think of how Maxwell was a symphony of texture. His velvety skin freshly shaven and warm, his clothing all soft silkiness and the catch of fur and lace. His hair even was a miracle of fashion despite a long day of K.P. duties. 

“You like it?” Maxwell asked with a shy smile. “Too much?”

“My dear, I cannot _wait_ to see you dressed in that at Beacon Hill.”

“Not sure if I could do that with Honoria in the house,” Maxwell flushed as he slid into Charles’ lap. 

Charles’ hands latched onto Maxwell’s thigh and hip, drawing him even closer as the older man kissed and licked over Maxwell’s neck. “Oh, don’t fret, pet, I’ll make sure she’s well occupied when you wear this delightful getup.”

In the background, Cab Calloway sang about millions of nickels and dimes as Charles laid Maxwell out on the bed as a feast for the senses that he was more than willing to indulge. 

_”Poor Min, Poor Min, Poor Min…”_


	38. No Sweat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles does his taxes and bonds with Father Mulcahy. Maxwell procures some relief for the boiling heat of Korea.

The symphony of exhausted, overheated moans that echoed around the camp could have driven Charles to wakefulness on any given day. As it was, he had succumbed to the little test tube full of pills in his footlocker hours ago for his shift in post-op. When he had returned to his shared tent with Maxwell, the younger man laid sprawled in delicate cotton underthings on the bed, getting his first real rest in a week, Charles had decided that while sleep was not in his favor, he might as well do something productive.

A week ago his father had sent him several large boxes of invoices, receipts, bank statements, and other financial documents to organize. While he was not enthusiastic about taking over the duties of the family C.P.A., he found that the idea of sleep was nearly impossible to even comprehend, and the heat had stolen sleep from him for the last three nights, so what was fourth? So there he was, set up in the Mess Tent, making a mess of his own as he sprawled his family’s entire financial history across two tables. 

“State of Massachusetts, debentures, uh interest income, 1949. The Winchester Enterprises.” He typed out on the borrowed typewriter he had taken from O’Reilly’s clerk’s office for the night. He had acquired five sheets of fresh carbon paper from the Corporal, and now was hoping that everything would go smoothly. If only he could properly sort it all. “Mallet repair, Cape Cod Polo Club. That'd be entertainment…” He checked the memo that his father had written and chuckled. “Ah, medical.”

The mess tent door opened and Charles turned to see Father Mulcahy, “Oh, Major Winchester. I see you couldn't sleep either.” The good-natured father smiled at him as he surveyed the mountain range of papers across the table.

“Hot enough for you, Father?” Charles asked with a weary smile. His patience was wearing thin as he looked at the seemingly endless bits of paper.

“My, my, that's quite an array. May one ask what you're doing at this late hour?” Father Mulcahy picked up a bill and read it over, repairs for the Packard after Honoria had decided to drive it onto the beach, before he put it down again.

“These are my family’s financial and tax records for the past three years. Since it is impossible to sleep in this Oriental oven, I'm utilizing these large tables to, uh, sort it all out.” Charles sighed as he turned to the next box he had to empty out.

“Oh. Is that what wealthy people do instead of counting sheep?” Charles could tell why Maxwell liked Mulcahy, the man had the same underhanded sense of humor that Maxwell had and Charles couldn’t help but smile at the joke. How had he become like this? It was only a year and a half since he had been in this hell, if his past self had looked at his current self he wouldn’t recognize himself.

“Hardly.” Charles chuckled as he smiled at the priest, only for him to frown as he gestured to the pile of paperwork. “My father has just rushed this monetary memorabilia, because I'm the only person who can decipher it properly apart from our trusted family accountant.”

“He shipped it to _Korea_?” Mulcahy asked, surprise colouring his tone. “Why on earth isn't the accountant doing it?”

Charles sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Because, as of last Tuesday, our certified public accountant is now a certified public enemy having been incarcerated on five counts of fraud, two counts of embezzlement, and countless counts concerning accounts for which he cannot account.”

Mulcahy smiled at him at that, clearly amused by Charles’ own attempt at a joke. “Nice alliteration, but what an awful situation.”

“What is awful is that the Internal Revenue Service is suddenly quite curious about the internal revenue of the Winchesters and the Emersons, and their vast financial enterprises.” Charles sighed, rubbing at his eyes. The dexies made his hands shake a bit, but he quickly waved that off as general exhaustion when the priest gave him a concerned look. 

“Well, looks like you've set quite a task for yourself… Anything I can do to help?” Mulcahy asked as he looked at the boxes. “I was pretty good at organizing my notes when I was in Jesuit school.”

“No, thank you. I alone must bear the brunt of this numerical nightmare.” Charles gestured to the mess. “I couldn’t even ask Maxwell to assist me in this endeavour, I love the man too much to torture him.”

To his credit, Mulcahy didn’t even flinch at the clear and brutal butchering of one of the chief covenants of his faith. Instead, as a true Christian, he smiled broadly and loved his neighbour. “Nonsense. The very least I can do is dash off to the kitchen, and fix us a nice frosty pitcher of lemonade.”

“Thank you, Father.” Charles smiled at Mulcahy. 

“My, my.” Mulcahy glanced down at a pile of papers. “You seem to have a lot of friends in Switzerland.”

Four pitchers of lemonade later, Charles made his way to the showers to dunk his head into the shower to cool off. He managed to get himself cooled enough that his sweat didn’t feel nearly as sticky against his skin, but his clothing had soaked through and the smell hit him. 

“Damnit,” He sighed as he made his way back to his tent to change. He opened the door and blinked at the sight of Maxwell lounging upon the bed, his white cotton underthings soaked through with sweat all over. 

“Boy, when Hawk and Beej told me that you stalked the night, I didn’t think it was true.” Maxwell smiled. “Come here, oh tall one of the Athiestic features.” Maxwell said, as if he was Cleopatra tempting Marc Anthony.

“Can’t. Father Mulcahy is assisting me in doing my taxes.”

Maxwell gave him a sympathetic look. “Phew, I saw some of those documents, you better have a priest there to forgive everything.”

“Believe me, darling, if I could do anything else in this sweltering weather then I would, but even cuddling with you in bed is _suffocating_.”

“Yeah, I’m enjoying having you out of bed for now.” Maxwell laughed slightly. “The first two days it was kinda fun to get all sweaty and cuddly together. The last three days I’ve felt like a turkey in an oven.”

Charles leaned over to give Maxwell a chaste kiss, the two of them not lingering for very long. “I promise I’ll come by every hour to give you a kiss, pet.”

“Gonna hold you to that, Major.” Maxwell smiled as he blew a kiss to Charles.

“Of course.” Charles smiled and caught the kiss before he stepped out into the compound to return to Father Mulcahy and his financial paperwork in the mess tent.

“Look what I found, Major!” Mulcahy grinned as he held up a plate. “Fresh fruit!”

“ _Fresh_? Not fruit _cocktail_?” Charles asked with a raised brow as he looked at the small, round oranges. 

“Of course, Igor said that he traded a case of powdered potatoes for them,” Mulcahy smiled and easily dug his thumbnail into the thin rind of the palm-sized fruit to peel it open.

“Ah, are you sure that Straminsky would like you sharing with me?” Charles asked with a longing look at the fruit. 

“Of course! And some extra for your lovely bride.” 

Charles looked at the man before he quietly accepted the small orange. “Father Mulcahy… I would… Could I ask you something?”

“Hmm?” Mulcahy smiled as he chewed a piece of orange, chasing it down with a sip of lemonade. 

“Most people would… Not accept Maxwell and I.” Charles looked at Mulcahy, trying to find the words. “But the Catholic church especially has never… Ah…”

“Ah, I see,” Mulcahy smiled as he looked at Charles, using his Panama hat to fan himself. “You’re wondering why I don’t breathe fire and brimstone down upon you?”

“Precisely.” Charles shrugged. 

“Major Winchester… Do you know where Burns and Houlihan are right this second?”

“In Houlihan’s tent, undoubtedly,” Charles sighed. “But Burns would never admit to it.”

“Precisely. And he’s a married man.” Mulcahy smiled at Charles. “And what did you and Maxwell do before you started sharing a tent?”

“We…” Charles cleared his throat. “Had a ceremony… Officiated by a shinto priest.”

“You got married,” Mulcahy smiled. “Christ told us in the New Testament to love thy neighbour. That that commandment, above all else, was to be obeyed.” He leaned back against a table and after a moment spoke up. “You and Max Klinger are good people. You aren’t Catholic, but I never held that against any of my friends.”

Charles smiled at the priest. “Thank you, Father.”

“Now that we’ve had some rest, what do you need to do next?” It was a clear out and Charles, ever the opportunist, took it.

“Now, Father,” Charles sighed as he gestured to the mountain of documents he had finally organized. “I have to record all these stupid figures, then make copies of it, and then have the table cleared before morning.”

“Oh… Surely, Major, as a member of our armed forces, surely the government would give you additional time?” Mulcahy asked as he stared at the mess of papers. 

“Me, yes. My family, no. Their taxes are due posthaste. And we are trying to avoid many unhappy returns.”

Mulcahy cleared his throat and smiled. “Well, I can be a good typist, and we can sit here and call this a confessional if you’re worried about anything in that recreation of the Rockies?”

Charles smiled at the man. “I would appreciate that, Father.”

They made it through another two pitchers before Straminsky came into the tent, the two exhausted men looking up as the private and mess officer entered, wearing a Hawaiian shirt his wife had sent him from home. 

“Hey, Father Mulcahy, Major Winchester. What are you doin' up so early?” He asked as he began to wipe down the various tables. 

Charles sighed as he rubbed his eyes, “We have a great deal of work to do, Straminsky, so if you don't mind-” He froze then his head shot up from where he had been bent over reading some scrawled memo on a voided check. “How much time before breakfast?”

Straminsky smiled at him and gave him a shrug, “You still got an hour, Doc.” Charles and Mulcahy relaxed before they continued on with their work. Straminsky began to wander the tent, talking more to himself than to his captive audience of two. “Phew! Boy, I tell ya, I don't mind havin' some company for a change. You probably don't know it, but every lousy day I gotta get up before reveille to get this joint ready. Whew, I'll tell you, this is about the hottest I've ever seen it here.” Straminsky finished setting out the various serving stands in the cafeteria table then smiled broadly as he began pushing the enormous fan that Charles had turned off and pushed aside earlier. “Hey, you look like you've been through the wringer. And you know somethin'? You're making it extra tough on yourself. This here fan ain't much help, but, heck, every little bit counts.”

Mulcahy stood up, and Charles turned and grabbed at the stacks of paper as the Father yelled, “Igor, _no_!”

The fan flicked on and Charles knew he’d be there for another three hours.

* * *

“Charles, Charles!” Maxwell grabbed at Charles’ shoulder, shaking him awake from where he had fallen asleep signing his name on the final document listing every bit of financial information his family had sent. It had been another two days of popping dexies into his mouth after a long shift then spending the night in the mess tent, organizing and cataloging every scrap of paper before he had finished it. At the feeling of Maxwell’s hands, the sound of his voice, Charles sat bolt upright, groaning at the sight of the madness that finally come to an end.

“Maxwell, what time is it?”

“Who knows anymore, baby,” Max gave Charles’ shoulders a firm rub, like a coach hyping up a boxer before a big match. “Come on, let’s move this to the tent, I got something I know you’ll _love_!”

“Maxwell, as much as I love your avant garde creations, it is too hot to even _cuddle_ in our tent at the moment and you know how that pains me.” Charles looked up at Maxwell, who seemed no worse for wear in the sweltering summer heat of Korea. 

“That’s where I _know_ you’re wrong, Major baby, I got something that will make you want to cuddle and kiss and lavish attention on me for hours. And it’s right in our tent, so let’s pack up and _move_!”

Charles yelped as Maxwell began to stuff papers willy nilly, but obeyed, keeping it as orderly as he could while Maxwell assisted in his excitement. It took one trip, with Charles carrying the precariously stacked documents, and Maxwell opening doors before they arrived in the veritable _sauna_ of their tent. He placed the box on his footlocker at the foot of the bed, then turned to look at the tent. 

“Maxwell, where is this surprise? Everything looks the same, the bed, the table, the Klinger Collection, the tub-” Charles froze, his mouth agape as he stared. “A _tub_?” He smiled at Maxwell and leaned down to steal a too-warm but much-deserved kiss from the young man. “You brilliant little creature you, how did you get it?”

“Some horse trading here and there. Got it in the last mail call, but didn’t have time to assemble it until last night.” Maxwell bounced on the balls of his feet as he practically tore Charles’ clothes from the man’s body. “Now come on, Major, let’s get in.”

Charles had never undressed so fast in his life, and he included the drunken then sober honeymoon in Tokyo that he and Maxwell shared. The tub was halfway filled, but Charles’ bulk displaced the water so that it was only halfway up his chest, a perfect height. He groaned and settled into the tub, only for his eyes to snap open when Maxwell’s leg entered the tub as well, the Corporal sliding in so that he straddled Charles’ lap in the water, shivering in delight the entire time. 

Heat had made Charles resistant to any activities that might increase his temperature for the last week, but the cool water encouraged him to grip Maxwell’s hips and grind their bodies together. Maxwell gave a gypsy grin and leaned in to capture Charles’ lips, kissing the man deeply as he rocked back and forth in his lap. 

“So, isn’t this better than doing taxes for your family?”

“Infinitely,” Charles moaned as his lips searched for Maxwell’s pulse so that he could suck and bite and moan against Maxwell’s neck. “I still have to finish them, you know.”

“Relax,” Maxwell purred as he stroked his fingers over Charles’ shoulders, gathering up a bar of fragrant goatsmilk soap that Mrs. Klinger had sent to her son. He began to lather up Charles’ hands, his arms, working the moisturizing soap into the man’s skin, soothing painful splits and cracks from constant scrubbing up. Charles’ eyes fluttered shut as he groaned and relaxed in the tub, cool water lapped at his chest and knees as Maxwell worked, slowly, luxuriously. “Just picture me, your virgin reward and we’re in paradise, in a cool oasis.”

“Feeding me figs and honey, pet?” Charles hummed as he leaned in to kiss Maxwell’s lips. 

Maxwell moaned and gasped, shivering as he felt Charles’ hands sink under the water, gripping at his thighs and ass, holding their bodies together as Charles thrust up against him. “Charles!” Maxwell moaned with a grin. “Fuck, Charles, that’s good.” He shivered and bit at the surgeon’s lips gently, spurring him into further action even as water sloshed up and over the sides of the canvas tub. “Careful! Don’t get the floor wet!”

Charles groaned and laid back, only for Maxwell to press a warm palm to Charles’ chest. “Darling, _please_ , do not deny me, we’ve been unable to do anything intimate or romantic or anything beyond a light kiss for a _week_.”

Maxwell grinned as he slid one palm down to Charles’ groin, and Charles couldn’t help the way his eyes fluttered closed and as he felt those clever, calloused fingers stroke over his cock. He could imagine, if he closed his eyes, that they were in Boston, at Beacon Hill, together in the large marble tub in his bathroom, soap suds flying up about them like filmy clouds as Maxwell laughed and kissed him and stared with those dark deep eyes that Charles could never get enough of.

His eyes flew open, but Charles didn’t see the tent they were living in, ignored the canvas of their tub, and merely fixed his gaze on Maxwell’s face as the younger man smiled at him, leaning in for a slow kiss. Charles’ eyes remained open as he watched dark lashes flutter and close as Maxwell moaned into their kiss. 

“Darling,” Charles groaned, one broad palm wrapped around Maxwell’s wrist. “I want to be inside you, it’s been so long.”

“Only a week, Major baby.” Maxwell purred before he leaned forward, his hand still moving, stroking gently, while Charles’ free hand slid between his thighs to finger him open. 

“The longest week I’ve ever experienced.” Charles bit at damp skin, tasting soap and salt and water all at once as Maxwell moaned and rocked against the fingers slowly opening him up. “A week of pure agony.”

“Charles,” Maxwell whined into the sweltering air of the tent, his chest heaving for breaths that refused to come. Charles smirked and curled his fingers one more time, making Maxwell yelp, before he removed them from the younger man. Strong, dark thighs trembled under the water as Charles pressed into his young husband, his own moans mixed with Maxwell’s as they adjusted to the feeling of one another again. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Charles whispered, choked and harsh against Maxwell’s neck. “You always feel so good, darling.”

“I make sure to stay good, just for you.” Maxwell mewled, his entire body a tight line of pleasure as Charles began to rock and thrust into him. More water sloshed over the edge, but Maxwell didn’t notice it as he whined and his eyes rolled back in pleasure. 

Charles felt so close to the edge it was nigh impossible to resist the siren’s call of Maxwell’s voice and body, the way he gripped at Charles’ shoulders and moved his hips on his own, demanding and eager, just as hungry for release as Charles was. “Come for me, pet,” Charles growled, knowing that it was a dirty pool to play on Maxwell when he was so close. “Be my good girl.”

Maxwell’s entire body tensed and he gasped, moaning as he twitched through his orgasm, Charles smirking at the sight of Maxwell’s entire body shaking through the aftershocks, his own eyes fluttering at the sight. Maxwell moaned and pressed closer, his hips rocking more slowly than the eager thrusts of before, but when his eyes opened and he smirked at Charles, that was all the older man could resist.

They held one another tightly in the cool water before Maxwell moaned and kissed him slowly. “I don’t think we thought this through, Major.”

“Whatever makes you think that, darling?”

“Now we actually gotta clean up… And the bath water is dirty.”


	39. The Late Major Charles Emerson Winchester III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles is declared dead by the Army. If only someone had informed him of that.

“Klinger! Klinger, are you decent in there?” O’Reilly’s voice made Charles’ eyes flutter open as he groaned. 

“O’Reilly, what in devil’s name do you _want_ at this hour?” Charles asked, rolling onto his side to cuddle closer to Maxwell, who was still fast asleep.

“Oh, gee, sir, I didn’t mean to wake you, just that Klinger has a call from the states!” 

Max’s head shot up at that, his eyes bleary and his curler and hairnet covered head turning to look around. “What, call? I got a call? Is it Ma?”

“No, I don’t think so, it’s a call from a lady in Boston? I couldn’t get her name.”

“Honoria.” Charles said, standing up as he threw his pants on, Max grabbing his housecoat as Charles stumbled around the tent. “Radar, don’t let that call cut out!”

“I’m trying, I’m trying!” Radar snapped. 

“ _Go, go_!” Charles waved at Radar, Klinger racing through the compound to follow the other Corporal, not even bothering to put on his fuzzy pink house slippers as the bitter winter wind whipped the tent door open then closed. 

Charles felt a whirlwind of terror grip his mind as he imagined all the horrible reasons Honoria would call so late at night. “Two in the morning here… Means it’s…” He breathed and tried to figure out the time as he raced across the compound in his coat. “One in the afternoon. Just after lunch…”

“Honey, Honey, calm down!” Klinger shouted into the phone. “No, no, listen to me, Honoria, just calm down and try and ask it-” Max froze before he started to shake O’Reilly’s shoulder. “Radar, we lost her, hello? Hello? Sparky? Hello!” Maxwell slammed the phone down. “Damnit!”

“What happened, Honoria, is she alright?” Charles asked, his pulse pounding as he gripped Maxwell’s hand. 

“She was so worked up, she just asked me when and how?” Max said as he looked up at Charles. “I don’t even know what to make of it, and with her… You know.”

“Yes, I know, when she’s worked up she forgets all those lessons mother and father gave her.” Charles sighed as he looked at the two Corporals, confused and exhausted.

“It’s alright, baby, I got this,” Maxwell looked at O’Reilly and gripped the other young man’s shoulder. “Radar, can you wake up Colonel Potter? I think we might have a doozy on our hands.”

“Aw, no way, that can wait!” O’Reilly shook his head, but a sympathetic look to Maxwell, then to Charles. “But, hey, we can try and get calls out every hour on the hour?”

“Thank you, Radar.” Maxwell smiled. 

Charles smiled as he was guided to sit down beside the Corporal’s desk as O’Reilly began to crank up his bag of phone. “O’Reilly?”

“… Yes, sir?” O’Reilly looked up at him like he might try running away. 

“Thank you.” Charles cleared his throat. “I…” He sighed. “I appreciate what you’re doing.”

“No problem, sir.” O’Reilly smiled. “You know, you’re good people now. Not like you used to be.”

“I assure you, O’Reilly, I doubt I will ever be as “good of people” as you.” 

To see the young company clerk smile, Charles would have thought he had told him he was being sent home. Charles couldn’t help but be startled, smiling back at the young clerk as Maxwell squeezed his hand and leaned against Charles’ shoulder.

* * *

Charles awoke again to a ringing, “Hello?” He shouted as he grabbed the phone receiver, trying to speak into it. “Hello, Honoria? Hello?” The ringing continued, and it took Charles a long moment before he sighed, realizing that the ringing was that of O’Reilly’s alarm clock. 

“Sorry, sir,” O’Reilly yawned, rubbing at his eyes. “They’re stopping all communications to the states. I’ve got a call in to “I” Corps and I’ll fill in the Colonel.” The young man squinted through his filthy glasses and Charles sighed before he pulled a handkerchief that Maxwell had embroidered him out of his pocket. He removed O’Reilly’s glasses, gave them a quick clean, and then passed them back to the boy. 

“Thank you, O’Reilly, I’m going to take a shower,” Charles sighed and stood up, looking over at Maxwell on O’Reilly’s bed, cuddling the other Corporal’s teddy bear tightly. “Can I leave him here for now? Or should I move him?”

“Nah, let him sleep, he’ll probably want to be in on this meeting too, considering your marriage-ship, sir.”

Charles sighed and nodded before he rubbed his eyes and left the office. He gathered his bath robe, his soap, and a towel, and when he was finally in the shower, the hot water pounding against his chest, he let out a sigh of quiet, if brief, relief. Why could Honoria be so desperate to call Maxwell in the middle of the night? He had carefully tracked the typical travel time of his letters, his latest recording would not get to her for two more days, but certainly that didn’t mean she would need to make such an urgent and frantic call in the middle of the Korean night? While Max and Honoria had never spoken on the phone before they had heard one another’s voices in the recorded letters frequently, he hated that their first phone conversation had been fraught with such confusion on Maxwell’s end and distress on Honoria’s.

Soap suds covering his face, Charles stuck his head underneath the stream, washing himself off as he heard the door open. “Close that godforsaken thing before I freeze something off!” Charles shouted through the water, pulling back to glare at the man who was smacking bubble gum and holding a clipboard as he looked inside the shower stalls. “Can I _help_ you,” He gripped the man’s coat and looked at his stripes. “Lieutenant?”

“Is this the whole tent?”

“No, there is an elevator that goes up seventeen more floors.” Charles gave the man a scowl. “ _Yes_ it is the whole tent.”

The man gave a confused look before he sighed and looked at his clipboard. “I’m looking for, uh, Major Charles Emerson Winchester… The Third?”

“Speaking,” Charles said simply as he picked up his razor and his shaving brush, lathering his face in order to scrape off the previous day and exhausting night.

“What?” The Lieutenant stared at him, then at his clipboard. “You can’t be him.”

“Says so on my dog tags, isn’t that why they issue these absurd little scraps of metal?” Charles held out his tags to the man. The Lieutenant leaned forward, read them then smacked his gum.

“Boy, there’s something wrong. Really wrong.”

“No war is perfect,” Charles sighed as he continued to lather.

“You’re not dead.” The Lieutenant said, staring up at Charles, who scowled and turned to stare at him.

“I should hope not. It would be unacceptable for me to die in a shower.”

“You’re supposed to be dead, sir, honest.” The Lieutenant held out the clipboard and Charles sighed, snatching it from the man to read it.

“Winchester, Charles Emerson, III. Major…” Charles trailed off as he comprehended what he was reading. “This is a _death certificate_!”

“Just a copy, sir.” The Lieutenant took the clipboard gently back. “They send the original back to the next of kin.”

Charles’ mind whirled and he scrubbed off the lather from his face using the shower head. “Who would have been notified now by telegram!”

“Army’s very good about that, sir.” 

“No wonder my sister didn’t ask for me!” He shouted as he climbed out of the shower, drying himself then throwing his robe on. “She thinks I’m _dead_!”

“So does the army, sir.” The Lieutenant looked concerned, and Charles knew it was not necessarily for his plight. “If you’re not dead I’m in big trouble. Three days ago a body fell out of my bus onto the road. Last week I came up another two bodies short. If I blow this one they’ll take me off morgue detail and put me on something worse.”

Charles tied his robe and glared at the man. “What, pray tell, could be worse?”

The Lieutenant shuddered and closed his eyes briefly. “I don’t let myself think about it.”

“Well, yes, Lieutenant…?”

“Detmuller, call me “Digger”.”

“I hate to inconvenience you, Detmuller, I truly do, but I am _alive_ , and I have to make a phone call.” Charles stepped out of the shower, slamming the tent door behind him as he stormed into O’Reilly’s office.

Colonel Potter was awake and in his office, already being hounded by Frank Burns as the man was heckled by Pierce, arguing about calisthenics. 

“Colonel, I need to speak with you!” Charles waved his death certificate at the man.

“Look at Winchester! He hasn’t exercised once, hasn’t done so much as a squat thrust!”

“Not that you can see, anyway,” Pierce smirked as Charles smacked him in the shoulder. “He saved himself for marriage, now he can only squat thrust with Corporal Klinger.”

“Degenerates!” Burns shouted as he turned back to Potter. “Far me it for me to tell you how to run your command, sir.”

“Very far be it.” Potter growled as he glared at Burns. 

“I apologize for missing Burns’ early morning hernia farm, after he requisitioned those five thousand trusses he decided to try and knock up demand.” Charles glared at the other surgeon before he looked at Potter, handing over the simple little piece of paper that had turned his world upside down. “But I, personally, have been _dead_.”

Pierce leaned over, craning his neck to look at it. “Damn, when you say dead, you don’t mean dead tired, you mean dead dead… Like a doornail.”

“Yes, my corpus has been declared delecti.” Charles sat down in the other free chair as Burns read the death certificate as well, eyes glinting with glee.

“That sure is a ticket to the last round up…” Potter sighed. “Radar!” Both O’Reilly and Maxwell came stumbling into the office, clearly having been listening in. “There’s some kind of clerical error going on here, Major Winchester here has been listd as dead.”

“Oooh, that explains the phone call!” O’Reilly looked at Charles, then at Potter, then back at the death certificate. “Wowee, I’ll get on the phone, Colonel, dig into the paperwork, clear this up.”

“On the double!” Potter nodded, placing the small document that had turned Charles’ life, as it was, upside down.

* * *

Charles sighed as he rubbed his eyes. Two days had passed and Detmuller had remained an though Charles was glad for a lull in the war, he was not glad for the Lieutenant remaining like a ghoul outside the O.R., watching any doctor that did anything from a simple appendectomy to a chest wound with the hopes of having a body to replace Charles’ own. Perhaps having the man there had increased the survival rate of the 4077th, but it didn’t mean that Charles was happy over it.

“Bad news, Detmuller,” Charles said as he stepped out of the O.R. with Maxwell and Hunnicutt in tow.

“Yeah, the patient lived.” Maxwell sighed as he stepped out of the operating gown and beanie, helping Charles into his own coat. 

“I’m sure you tried,” Detmuller sighed as he left the scrub room in order to go to post-op and lurk. 

“Hey, Major,” Maxwell hummed as he pulled on his mink coat, looking up at Charles. “In lieu of you not being able to get through to Honoria long-distance, why don’t we see if Radar can send out a telegram through another unit?”

Charles paused before he smiled at Maxwell. “That’s wonderful, Maxwell!”

“Here, I got a notepad.” Maxwell felt through his pockets before he produced a notepad and pen rubber banded together. “Shoot!”

“Dear Honoria, I’m not dead. Stop. You cannot get rid of me that easily. Stop.” Charles smiled. “Thinking of selling my clubs? Stop. Spending even more of my money? Stop. Will call as soon as able. Stop. Love, your not-late brother, Charles.”

“Beautiful.” Maxwell smiled as he stood on his tip toes to steal a kiss from Charles, uncaring of Hunnicutt’s smiling gaze. “Don’t be late for your wake tonight. It’s in the mess tent and I have it all planned.”

“My _what_?” Charles asked, startled as Maxwell left in a flurry of fur and skirts.

“Oh, what sort of friends would we be if we didn’t do a proper send off?” Hunnicutt asked with a grin. 

The P.A. system crackled to life and Charles looked up at the sound. “Attention all personnel. Come one, come all to a wake for the late, great Major Charles Emerson Winchester III. We’ll be mourning all afternoon and evening. The deceased will deliver the eulogy, and the guests will have twenty minutes for rebuttal. Remains to be seen in the mess tent.”

Hunnicutt smiled at Charles’ groan of annoyance. “Come on, Chuckles, why don’t you get dressed? Not every day a man gets a seat as his own funeral.”

* * *

Honoria had sent him his tuxedo months ago as a joke, when Charles had complained about how dismal it was to wear the same things day in and day out. It was laid out on the bed, pressed and brushed and neat, and Charles smiled at the idea of Maxwell nitpicking over it from where it had hung in the standard issue closet that Charles had commandeered.

He donned the sleek black “penguin suit” as Pierce and Hunnicutt had called it and combed what little of his hair remained before he stepped out into the compound. Maxwell had taken the record player into the mess tent and had was playing some of Charles’ favourite music that filtered through into the rest of camp. When he walked into the mess tent he was greeted by a sea of black uniforms, painstakingly dyed by Maxwell’s clever fingers, and his darling husband stood at the center of the commotion, wearing a black long sleeve sheath dress that ended at his thighs, trailing black fringe licking down to his ankles. He was even wearing the diamond earrings and necklace that Charles had bought him on their last trip to Tokyo. He had worried at first about the others seeing him in such things, but with the exception of a select few, none of them had proven to know the real thing from the fake. 

“And here’s the corpse of the hour!” Maxwell strutted over and wrapped his arm around Charles’ own, dragging the man to the seat of honor at a large table draped in black cloth at the head of the mess tent, where the officers were also seated, grinning as they held up glasses of various alcohol procured from the O Club. “And now, as the-” Maxwell dramatically placed his hand on the back of his forehead. “The grieving widow of the deceased.” Everyone laughed and cheered, as Maxwell bowed. “Thank you, I’d like to raise a toast.” Charles laughed as his husband gathered up a glass of cognac, holding up the drink. “To my dear husband. No one quite knows how or when he died. We just know that he died here, in Korea. Though to be honest, have any of us truly lived since we got here?” Maxwell smiled over his shoulder at Charles, who smiled back. 

“Considering our age differences, darling, I’m not sure how much I like this elaborate planning of my funeral. Especially given the short notice.”

“A gal’s gotta be prepared!” Maxwell smiled and a ripple of laughter tore through the mess. “Okay, tall, handsome and dearly departed, time for you to give your eulogy.”

“Only because he knows we’d all have nothing but rotten things to say about him!” Pierce said with a gin-drunk grin as he watched Charles stand, the man adjusting his tuxedo. 

“Absolutely, Pierce.” Charles took his own cognac and Maxwell sat down beside him. It very much resembled a table for the bridal party at a wedding. With the officers flanking them as Maxwell and Charles sat at the center. “First of all, I would be remiss to not thank you all for turning out to my funeral. Maxwell planned it so well and I would hate for it to be the only one of mine that he hosts and doesn’t get the recognition he deserves.” Charles turned his glass to Maxwell. “Darling, I would like to donate my body to science, with the exception of a few key parts.”

“And what parts would that be, Chuckles?” Hunnicutt asked as he grinned at the dearly departed. 

“First, my shoulder to the wheel. Then my nose to the grindstone. My ear to the ground. But my heart, my heart is all yours, Maxwell.”

Charles turned to the others. “I also would like to bequeath my cot to Captain Pierce. Since he seems to spend so much time putting snakes, rats, and general garbage in it, he can have it as his own to clean out.”

“I shall think of you every time I spread cracker crumbs in it.” 

Charles chuckled before he continued. “To Captain Hunnicutt, my stationary. You’ll have to cross out the name in the letterhead when you write your wife, lest she believe she’ll have to burn love letters before her husband returns.”

“I promise to tear off the tops of all of it! No matter how expensive it was!”

“Mhm, quite.” Charles smiled. “To Colonel Potter, I leave my collection of Boston Globe Newspapers, with the funny pages all placed on the top.”

“Finally I’ll get to see the wedding of the century with Lil’ Abner and Daisy Mae!”

Charles smiled at Houlihan. “To Major Houlihan, I leave you all of the nail polish that I bought Maxwell that he did not like. You can paint every finger and toe a different color of the rainbow and never have the same color twice.”

“Oh, _really_.” Houlihan rolled her eyes, but smiled anyway.

“To Father Mulcahy, Private Straminsky, and Sergeant Rizzo,” Charles turned and gestured to Maxwell. “I leave the care of my black widow bride. Make sure he never takes another to their untimely death the way he has undoubtedly taken me to mine this time around.”

“Don’t worry, Major, we’ll keep him from killing again!” Straminsky laughed, guffawing and drunken while the sour Sergeant Gifford held him up. 

“Oh come on, Major baby, I didn’t kill you! I would never!” Maxwell fluttered his lashes dramatically and Charles chuckled as he gave Maxwell a stern, suspicious look.

“This elaborately planned funeral says otherwise.” Charles lifted his drink. “To Major Burns… I leave nothing. And now, a toast. For-”

Pierce cut him off and began to sing at the top of his lungs. “For he was a jolly good fellow!”

The other officers joined in with grins. “He was a jolly good fellow!”

“He was a jolly good fellow!” The tent nearly rattled with the volume.

“I was much too young to die!”

As everyone cheered and toasted and blew party noise makers the short form of O’Reilly wove through the party, clipboard clutched in gloved hands as the young man kept his makeshift earmuffs over his head. “Major Winchester! No cables going out, sir, no phone no nothing! There’s this new security, the strictest.” He looked up at the corpse of the hour and Charles scowled.

“I have to get through to my sister, O’Reilly!” He ran a hand over his head, placing his glass of cognac down before he looked up at O’Reilly. “There must be something! If not telephone or telegraph, then carrier pigeon? _Smoke signals_!”

O’Reilly, to his credit, looked apologetic. “Well it’s on account of General Eisenhower’s coming over, sir! They’re doin’ all sorts of precaution, the Secret Service, M.P.’s, they’re lockin’ up a whole lot of South Koreans!”

Maxwell rubbed Charles’ back, kissing his husband’s cheek gently, leaving a dark lipstick mark on the man’s pale skin. “Cheer up, Major baby. Being dead gets you out of orientation classes, O.D. duty, inspection, and even Major Burns’ body building course!”

Charles sighed as he sat up, looking at his husband, before he leaned over to share a brief kiss with the man. “I suppose so… I have not yet begun to die.”

* * *

“Winchester, this is Captain Pratt, from H.Q..” Colonel Potter sat behind his desk as the visiting Captain gave a brief salute to Charles, his thin, rat-like face perfect for the role of upper-management within the U.S. Army.

“We’ve given the matter a good look see, Major Winchester,” Pratt said as he placed his briefcase on Potter’s desk, clicking it open very officially, as if that gave him more power in the room. “What has happened is that some clerk down the line has obviously switched your name with that of a deceased patient on a Certificate of Death.” Pratt gave a small, nervous chuckle as he looked at the towering Major. “It, uh, happens all the time.”

“And has the real dead man’s-” Charles gave a sarcastic chuckle. “Family been notified?”

“They will be.” Pratt said quickly before he began to pull out paperwork. “In your case we’ll submit to Quartermaster a request to rescind the Certificate of Death on D.A. form 10/249 in triplicate, accompanied by an S.F. 88/1107, signed by three officers of equal or higher rank, followed by a personal written report on form 63/EBY by a ranking officer who actually saw the deceased not die in triplicate.”

Charles rubbed his face with both hands, an undignified gesture that he could not resist any longer while in the presence of genuine G.I. stupidity. “Captain Pratt, please be clear. What does this all come down to when you boil it down?”

“That is boiled down, Winchester.” Potter sighed.

“This could take _months_!” Charles shouted, shaking a finger at the man. “I could be dead by the time you make me alive.”

Captain Pratt cleared his throat. “We’ll do the best we can.”

“My good man, this is the _Army_ , no one can do the best they can!” Charles glared at the man. “Meanwhile, no mail no money, and my own personal undertaker with his hearse double-parked!”

Pratt gave a small smirk. “Well, you are, Doctor, I am afraid, what George Orwell described in _1984_ as an “unperson”.”

“An “unperson”? Now I’m an “unperson”?” Charles loomed over the Captain, prowling about the edge of the Colonel’s desk. “Do you know that right now my poor sister, not realizing that I’m “undead”, is at this minute mourning her “un-brother”?”

“I don’t know any way around it, Major.”

“Oh you don’t? So she is rattles around my empty house, sells off my things that are too painful to look at, drinks herself into oblivion every day that she thinks I’ve shaken off this khaki coil!” Charles turned on his heel with all of the vicious frustration of a man who had reached the end of his tether. “I will be in my _tent_!” Charles said as he turned and snarled at Pratt. “Unless I am to be evicted from there as well!”

When Charles arrived at his tent Maxwell was sewing at his vanity, the slender man jumping like a startled cat when the door slammed open then closed. “Didn’t go well, huh?” He asked as he placed aside the hem he had been carefully stitching by hand. “What did the H.Q. guy say?” He smoothed his hands over the grey wool of his skirt, and Charles followed his hands with his eyes for a moment, before he shook his head and rubbed his eyes once more.

“Captain _Pratt_ lived up to his name. He was an absolute prat through and through.” Charles sat on the bed and covered his face with his hands. The frustration of the last two weeks had gotten to him, the novelty of being a dead man walking had long worn off. Now he was trapped in limbo, inches away from Hell, and unable to do a thing about it.

“Look, Major, everything is going to be okay.” Maxwell laid down next to the man, stretched out along the length of the bed behind Charles’ hunched back. “Come on, lay down, lay down.” He managed to coax Charles into obeying such a gentle order, his thin fingers working under Charles’ layers as the man rolled to face him in their bed. Maxwell's clever digits were a bit cold, but quickly warmed against Charles’ skin, dragging over his chest and stomach, undoing his belt as Maxwell kissed Charles’ lip gently. “I sent a letter to Honoria, it should get to her within the month, but who knows with Eisenhower. Even then, if we get the phones back before she gets the letter, we’ll call her the minute we can. First call out.” 

Charles let out a huff of air, the muscles of his stomach jumping as Maxwell’s clever fingers worked his pants open, slipping beneath his skivvies in order to slowly stroke him. “Maxwell-” He was cut off by the younger man’s lips. 

“Relax, Doctor.” Maxwell grinned. “If you’re dead to the Army then that means I’m with a civilian right now.” He hooked one slim leg over Charles’ own, his ankle tucked behind the older man’s knee, his stockings catching against fatigues. “You don’t get to order me around until you’re alive to the Army again.” Soft, clever lips brushed over his and Charles accepted the kiss, pulling Maxwell close.

His frustration made him stiff, demanding, rougher than he would normally be, but Maxwell was Toledo tough and could handle the way Charles’ hands gripped his thighs, his waist, bruising him as the younger man stroked him through a slow, winding orgasm. There was little relief to be had, but Charles took it where he could as he kissed Maxwell, clinging to his husband tightly, biting marks into his shoulder, his neck, as long fingers tangled in soft hair. 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it, Doctor Winchester?” Maxwell asked with a grin, his narrow hips rocking so that Charles was forced onto his back, Maxwell now straddling his waist with the honed in skill of someone who had done it a dozen times, the thick wool of his skirt covering their hips as Maxwell ground against Charles. 

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Feeling relaxed, are we?”

“Mmm, not nearly enough.”

Maxwell grinned down at him. “Well then I’ll just have to work harder to make you less stiff.”

* * *

“Honoria, quit crying, it’s okay. I needed a new set of clubs anyway.” Charles smiled into the phone as his sister stuttered and sobbed. One month since he had been declared dead he was finally able to call his sister, and even though he had stood through a brutal O.R. session, was still covered in his bloody surgical gown, and he had no doubt woken Honoria in the middle of the night at Beacon Hill, he was still so very relieved to hear her voice. “And I am so glad you kept the butterfly collection and didn’t give it away.” 

“Ch-ch-ch-charles!” She sobbed, sniffling and wet as he heard the sound of her blowing her nose into her handkerchief. “I-I-I-I-”

“I know, Honey, I know.” Charles smiled as he listened to her. “It’s fine. It’s all alright. As far as the Army is concerned I’m still dead, but rest assured they’re working on it.” 

“I-is th-th-th-there a-a-a-a-anything I-I-I-I ca-ca-can d-d-d-d-d-d-do?” Her stutter was so much worse as she sat there, overcome with emotion, sobbing into the receiver, but Charles couldn’t help but think it was so much better than her thinking he was dead. He'd rather her tears of joy than tears of sorrow. 

“Actually, there is, Honey,” He sighed as he leaned back in O’Reilly’s desk chair. “Could you bring some cash to the Fort Devens army base in Massachusetts and convert the cash into army scrip? Then mail it to me so that I might have some extra spending money while my back pay is taken care of. Send it to Maxwell Klinger so that it actually gets here.”

“O-o-of c-c-c-course.”

Charles smiled as he listened to her sobs and sniffles. “I love you, Honoria. It’s so good to hear your voice again.”


	40. Souvenirs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles is taking Maxwell back home with him. Houlihan wonders if she might have the same future with Burns.

“Here's a pair of earrings, Klinger.” Stratton was sitting across from Maxwell at the table, trying to hock his junk as he always did during his breaks between flying patients to and from the 4077th. Charles didn’t like Stratton. Not because the man had ever been inappropriate with Maxwell, had ever been cruel to the young man. Quite the opposite. “I had 'em designed just for you.” The man held up the pair of earrings to Maxwell’s face. “They're made out of.45-caliber shells. They’re _you_ all over, Klinger.”

Maxwell scoffed and rolled his eyes, brushing aside the man’s hands. “Anything over .30 caliber is gauche.” Maxwell leaned back and flicked through the other little souvenirs that Stratton was trying to sell. Charles rolled his eyes and went to the coffee line, filling two mugs before he 

Stratton gave an aborted chuckle, “Taste. You have taste. Gotta tell you.” He reached out to grab his bag of tricks and carefully rummaged through it. “All right, here's something I know you're gonna like. Not many men can wear this.” He carefully pulled a long necklace of grenade pins, giving Maxwell that apple-pie-and-ice-cream smile that probably got him anything he wanted back home. “The safety pins from a hundred hand grenades.”

Maxwell groaned as Charles sat beside him, the older man scoffing at the sight of the souvenir jewelry. “Don't you have anything happy?” Maxwell asked as he lifted his cigar to his lips, Charles producing a pack of matches to light it for him. “Whatever happened to rhinestones?” Maxwell asked around his cigar, puffing away as he ferreted through the various items. 

“Of course he doesn’t, Maxwell, I don’t know why you entertain him.”

“Waiting for him to have buttons and zippers for me.” Maxwell stood with his mug of coffee, Charles smirking at Stratton’s put upon expression. 

“Oh come on, that’s too fiddly for me!” Stratton said as they left the mess tent, Charles gently stroking over the small of Maxwell’s back.

They were across the compound when Maxwell asked Charles, slyly, quietly. “So… No souvenirs for you?”

“Oh, of course not. I already have you. I’ll pack you up in my valise when I leave.” Charles smiled as he gave the younger man’s rear end a swat to coax him into their tent. 

Maxwell laughed as he let Charles pull him close, the man’s broad hands eagerly playing at the zip down the side of his dress, tugging until he could peel the younger man free. “Your family is gonna ask where you picked me up, Lebanon is a bit far from South Korea.”

“I’ll say that I found you in a curio shop.” Charles teased as he perched Maxwell on the edge of their little dining table, observing the younger man in his lace underthings. 

Maxwell laughed as he kissed the Charles back, gently licking into the man’s mouth as Charles slid his palms and fingers over fine lace and soft satin and Maxwell’s smoothly shaven skin. Maxwell’s body arched beautifully at the treatment, his ankles hooked over the back of Charles’ knees to hold the man close, dark eyes fixed on the man as he panted and moaned for more, demanding so sweetly that Charles could hardly deny him. Charles managed to get his pants undone on his own, Maxwell’s hands splayed on the table behind him as he bit his lip and looked down, at Charles fumbling with his belt and zipper, his excitement making him shake.

He’d never let Maxwell forget how perfect he was. All smooth, dark skin. There were scars here and there, his fingers were calloused, but even those were all so beautiful, like glimpses of stars and comets within a city’s light-polluted skies. Even his nose, which so many made fun of him for, was beautiful, made his profile elegant and beautiful. Cleopatra was said to have a similar profile, and while Charles was sure he was no Marc Anthony, he was sure he was a much more ardent worshipper of Maxwell.

“Fuck.” Maxwell moaned as Charles’ lips brushed down his neck, his shoulder, biting at the man’s tender skin, marking him beneath the modest collars of Maxwell’s latest creations. Charles gave a sharp bite and Maxwell gasped, only for it to turn into an eager groan at the feeling of Charles pushed inside him, spreading him open abruptly. They had spent so much time together now, had explored so many pleasures, that Charles was sure he could bend Maxwell over any surface in camp, at any given hour, and Maxwell would be ready to easily moan and whine and accept his husband fucking him hard and eager. 

“You’re quite lovely, pet.” Charles moaned into Maxwell’s ear, biting at his ear lobe as strong legs tightened about his waist. “So clever and precious and beautiful and kind.” He sucked a dark mark into the dark curve of jaw and neck while Maxwell swung one hand around to grab at what remained of Charles’ hair, yanking him close with a whine.

“You can’t get rid of me now, Charles, I’m like a bad penny.”

“Pretty and bright as one too.” Charles moaned as he grabbed hold of Maxwell’s thighs and picked up his pace, feeling his stomach tighten as he desperately held back his own orgasm. The moment his hand wrapped around Maxwell, his beautiful young prize threw his head back and gasped, whining and thrusting clumsily into the tight grip. “Good girl, come for me, sweetling.”

He was sure that someone outside heard them, but Charles didn’t care, especially not when Maxwell came undone beneath him, legs trembling and tight around Charles’ waist.

It was several more minutes before they caught their respective breaths, Maxwell’s sweat soaked hair clinging to his cheeks and forehead as he stared up at Charles, panting and shivering. When Charles pulled back he was still achingly hungry for touch, for skin against his own, so he collected Maxwell into his arms, the younger man draping his arms around Charles’ shoulders like a romantic heroine. They laid down side by side on the bed and Charles sighed as he kissed Maxwell’s lips gently, warmly. 

Maxwell reached down and stroked Charles slowly, his lips curving into a smirk against his husband’s mouth. “Should I be insulted?” He asked as Charles groaned and thrust into his calloused fingers.

“Absolutely not,” Charles groaned as he kissed Maxwell in an attempt to silence him. “Little Minx.”

“I sure am,” Maxwell purred as he slid down Charles’ body, kissing and biting over Charles’ neck and collarbones as clever fingers flicked open Charles’ buttons. “Help me with this.” He ordered gently, and Charles was helpless to do anything but obey. Maxwell paused, his fingers rubbing over the man’s bared chest and stomach. “Lost some more weight, baby.” He murmured, looking up at Charles. “I’ll have to put another hole in your belt.”

“It’s nothing, Maxwell, just good bad old army food.” Charles pulled Maxwell closer, trying to distract him. 

“If you’re sure.” Maxwell leaned in to kiss Charles’ lips before he inched his lips down the man’s neck and chest. “Let me get your mind off things. Might work up an appetite too.” Charles groaned as he tangled his fingers in Maxwell’s dark hair, panting through the feeling of soft lips on his cock. 

It had taken some practice for both of them to get so comfortable with one another’s bodies, but by now, nearly a year into their marriage, it was nearly impossible to forget how good it felt to just enjoy one another’s pleasure. Charles was certain that that was one of the few reasons that Maxwell even looked up at him with those doe-like eyes, lined with black and lashes crusted with mascara. He couldn’t _enjoy_ the sight of Charles, even Charles didn’t like the sight of himself most days. 

“Max-” Charles groaned as Maxwell sucked on him harder, making his legs jump as the younger man drew him out of his thoughts and into the present, the pleasure turned intense to the point of nearly painful as Maxwell raked perfectly manicured nails over Charles’ stomach and side, drawing his attention outwards even more. “Fuck, Maxwell, just - yes, just like that.”

Maxwell swallowed slowly as Charles came, shaking and groaning at the way the younger man tormented over-sensitive flesh for a few moments before he pulled back. When Charles felt like he could see again, blinking away the white haze of orgasm, he looked down at Maxwell, who wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smirked down at Charles. Slim legs straddled Charles’ waist and broad palms gripped at Maxwell’s hips to hold him still. 

“Feel good, baby?” Maxwell asked as he kissed Charles, his hands kneading at broad shoulders. 

“Of course.” Charles groaned, biting at Maxwell’s lower lip gently. “You feel wonderful, you’ve developed quite the talent.”

“My tongue was clever long before you, baby, I just found a new way to use it.” Maxwell grinned as he cuddled up to Charles’ chest, their bare skin pressed together, Charles’ hands stroking over the places where Maxwell’s lean body was covered by lace, the younger man smirking as he nipped at Charles’ lower lip. “I was hustling pool and dice and taking bets before I could ride a bike, my mouth better be talented.”

* * *

Charles had developed insomnia on top of a dependence to the pep pills. What made it worse was the fact that he only felt awake when he took the pills anyway. It was an endless vicious cycle and what had begun as one or even half of a pill had turned into two at a time, swallowed down dry, every other day. 

“Winchester?” Houlihan asked as she smiled at him, coming through the mess tent to get some coffee after her shift in post-op. “What are you doing up?”

“Maxwell is resting peacefully for the first time in days,” Charles said simply. “I haven’t the heart to awaken him with my own tossing and turning.”

Houlihan sat down across from him and smiled, cupping her hands around the warm mug. “I got a letter today.” She hummed, looking down. “Donald wrote me… He wants me to visit him in Tokyo. Colonel Potter approved the three day pass.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Charles asked as he looked at the woman. “What you wanted? Perhaps he’ll even propose.”

“I don’t know.” She sighed. “I told Frank about Donald and he’s been… Cold to me ever since. Well. Sometimes he’ll be cold, ignore me like I’m not even there, and then other days he’s obsessed.”

“Frank Burns is a bundle of neuroses all his own.” Charles said simply. “With a wife back in the states that he’ll never divorce.” 

“I know.” Houlihan sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Frank proposed to me, said he wanted to marry me. But I think that was just a ploy to keep me from talking to anyone else.”

“Of course it was,” Charles said simply, sipping at a glass of powdered orange juice. “Why are you hesitating over that?”

Houlihan fiddled with her mug. “What if he can change? What if I can go back with him?”

“And what?” Charles scoffed. “Be forced to see him as a patient? A mistress? You’re not a doll from the Tokyo PX, or a hari kari dagger he can stuff into his footlocker.”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing for Klinger?” Houlihan asked sharply, looking at Charles with a scowl. “He’s your wartime souvenir?”

Charles didn’t take it personally. “The difference being that I’ve secured Maxwell’s place in my life and family back home. He’s technically the heir to my estate, but he’s so much more than that. We cannot have a true marriage like what you hope for from Burns, but I’ve done what I can to give him the same rights that a wife might have if I ever had the desire to take one.” Charles leaned back to look Houlihan in the eyes. “Tell me, honestly, has Frank done the same for you?”

The silence between them was enough to confirm that no, Burns had not given Houlihan the same consideration. Charles could see her decision in her eyes.


	41. Your Hit Parade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse of a deluge, while O'Reilly plays disc jockey.

The P.A. crackled to life and Charles sighed as it interrupted the record player playing Mahler. “Attention, all personnel. No casualties for the 11th straight day. O.R. will remain open for cuticle and wart removal. Come early, win a door prize.”

“Eventually we’re going to run out of disgusting pass-times in this godforsaken hell.” Charles said as he sat at his desk and wrote a letter to Honoria. 

Maxwell chuckled as he continued to embroider his latest project carefully, elaborate little swirls of red, blue, and green on a white blouse. “Well, what would we be doing right now if we were in Boston?”

Charles paused before he looked around the tent and smiled. “Probably exactly what we’re doing. Except I’d be writing an article to the A.M.A..”

“See, so at least things won’t change that much when we leave.” Maxwell hummed, looking up at the knock on the door. “It’s open.” O’Reilly entered and Charles went back to his letter, expecting that the young Corporal was wanting to speak with his cohort. “Hey, Radar, what’s going on?”

“Actually, I just come in to see Major Winchester.” Radar said quietly as he looked nervously at Charles. Even all the months since he had arrived, nearly two years now, and the young man was still nervous around him. It was endearing and comforting at the same time, at least he knew he hadn’t lost his stern edge that had gotten him so far in Boston General.

“Now I'm confused.” Maxwell put aside his embroidery.

“I just want to borrow his record player.” O’Reilly shuffled his feet, speaking directly to Maxwell seemed to be a comfort that helped him have this strange dialogue with Charles while not actually speaking to the man. “We just got a new shipment of records in from Special Services. Colonel Potter says I could play 'em over the P.A. if I can find something to play 'em over on.”

Charles nodded and hummed as he continued his letter, not looking at O’Reilly so as not to spook the boy. “That should be great for breaking up the monotony. Just so long it is not like the last batch. "Andy Devine Sings Cole Porter.".” Maxwell laughed slightly at that but didn’t correct him.

O’Reilly shook his head quickly. “Oh, no. These are all new. There's some really swingin' jazz stuff.”

“Radar, say no more. Here you are.” Maxwell removed the record carefully and passed over the record player. “Compliments of Major Winchester.”

“Oh, uh, I don't know about this.” O’Reilly looked nervously at Charles’ back.

Maxwell grinned and nudged O’Reilly. “Go on, quick, before Charles changes his mind.”

“Okay. You’ll thank him for me, Klinger?” O’Reilly seemed confused, talking about Charles like he wasn’t there when the man was simply seated right there, continuing his letter.

Maxwell laughed slightly as he patted O’Reilly on the shoulder, “Oh sure, I’ll even help you set it up.”

“Have fun, O’Reilly, Maxwell,” Charles said simply. “And O’Reilly, if that record player breaks I’ll garnish your wages.”

Charles waited for a while, finished his letter, placed it in the envelope and was halfway across the compound to hand it to O’Reilly, and check in on the two hare-brained Corporals, “Hi.” O’Reilly let out a nervous chuckle, “This is Corporal - No, this is Radar.” Charles shook his head and smiled. “Um, I just thought you might like to hear, uh... No, uh, I got a— We just got a shipment of, uh...” Charles opened the door and peered in at Maxwell and O’Reilly standing over the P.A. mic, the record player prepped and ready to be played. “Yeah, uh, I'm gonna play a record for you.”

“Well, it looks like you two are having fun.” Charles said as he leaned against the desk, looking at the elaborate setup they had constructed. 

“Oh, thank you, sir!” O’Reilly smiled broadly as Maxwell picked up a notepad. 

“I’m gonna write him some disc jockey stuff.” Maxwell smirked. “Hopefully he’ll get better at it.”

“Uh-oh…” O’Reilly froze, like a little dachshund seeing a rabbit burrow, he grabbed the mic and stopped the music. “Attention, all personnel. Incoming choppers. Sounds like plenty. All medical teams report to triage on the double.”

Charles raced out, Maxwell on his heels as they made their way to the incoming ambulances and choppers. 

Potter was out already, directing the mess that had fallen down around him, “Over here. Set this man down here.” He looked up at Charles as the man began to check over a very clear chest wound. “The Chinese are throwing everything they got across the parallel. The 8055th has bugged out. The 8063rd is overloaded. We're getting everybody's casualties.” Potter shook his head as he squinted at his scrambling surgeons, nurses, and corpsmen. “The whole enchilada.”

Charles moved on to the next patient, shaking his head with a sigh. “Fractured skull. Possible hematoma. Dilated pupils. Prep him stat.”

“We're running out of room, sir.” Nurse Kellye said, only for Potter to call out.

“Make room. This guy can't wait.” Potter began to check over bodies being laid down on the ground amidst Hunnicutt, Pierce, and Burns.

“Geez. Where are they coming from?” Maxwell asked as he grabbed the patient that Charles had just finished looking over.

Charles sighed, “Everywhere. The question is where are we going to put them?”

Pierce called out loudly across the compound, “Charles, I got a bus full of belly wounds.”

“Maxwell,” Charles walked forward to the bus, climbing in with Maxwell waiting at the entrance of it. “Type and cross match all of the patience, open the blood bank and start draining them.”

“Yes, sir.” Maxwell turned and began to hunt through for the soldiers with rarer blood types.

Potter called out, “Radar! Oh. What happened to the music?”

O’Reilly froze before he raced over to Potter who was directing corpsmen as they unloaded the wounded Charles was trying to get off the bus in quick order. “Well, I figured with all the casualties and all you'd...”

“No, no. no. no.” Charles could practically hear Potter’s smile. “Get back in there and play something soft and mushy. We're gonna need all the sedatives we can get.”

“Yes, sir. I'll get on the slow stuff real fast.”

* * *

“O’Reilly, may I put in a request?” Charles called from his operating table, Maxwell assisting him on a lung that required retraction. He had traded off with Nurse Baker when her arm strength had proven insufficient for the enormous Corporal’s chest. 

“Of course, Major, it’s your player!”

“Oh no, not more philharmonicas.” Hunnicutt groaned. 

“No, no, I’d like you to play _Let’s Misbehave_ by Irving Aaronson and his Orchestra.”

“His Commanders.” Maxwell corrected with a smile.

“That’s a ridiculous title for them, but fine, his Commanders.”

“Charles indulging in common pop?” Pierce asked with a grin behind his mask. “Surely hell has frozen over.”

“I’ll get your song playing in a few songs, Major Winchester, sir.”

“Thank you, O’Reilly.” Charles said, ignoring Pierce as he listened to a new more rhythmic song begin to play. “Alright, Maxwell, hand me the instruments on the beat. One, two three four. Clamp, two three for. Sponge, two three four.”

“That’s _Syncopated Clock_ , from the Late Late Show.” Maxwell smiled as he danced a bit in spot. “My Uncle Hassan would watch it every night whenever I went over for sleepovers with my cousin Cecily!”

“He's hemorrhaging. Suction, Maxwell.” Charles’s smile behind his mask dropped as he carefully worked on the patient, keeping the conversation casual so as not to make Maxwell nervous. “And is Cecily part of your enthusiasm for dresses?”

Maxwell’s hands shook slightly anyway, but he kept a brave face on it. “Oh yeah, she and I would sit together and color paper dolls, or throw a baseball around. She works as foreman for my Uncle Hassan’s construction company now.”

Charles sighed at the mess of the young man’s insides, “We've got a lacerated aorta. Pump in two more units of AB negative whole blood fast.”

“We’re out, Major.” Maxwell said as he checked the level of blood, half a unit gone.

“ _Out_?” Charles asked, startled as he looked over at the other doctors.

Houlihan nodded, “Yes, sir, we only had two units and it that went in the first wave.”

Potter shook his own head and sighed as he focused on his own patient and gave his orders, “Klinger, switch with Nurse Baker, do what you can to get us some more, tap Winchester and Burns if you have to, they can take their breaks.”

“Yes, sir,” Maxwell stepped aside as he looked at Charles, made sure that the retractor was still pulled tight. “Nurse Baker, if he asks for a kiss on the cheek don’t give it to him, that’s my job.”

“Rest assured, Baker, I will not be requiring a kiss on the cheek from you. Let's get this bleeding under control. Vaso clamp.”

* * *

Charles entered the mess tent where the wounded had been moved slightly aside so that the well could be tapped for their blood. He sat down, ready to take his break before taking on his shift with the newly expanded post-op tents. Maxwell as efficiently connecting the various tubes to his donors, serving powdered orange juice, and checking on people who were finished donating. 

O’Reilly’s voice sounded over the P.A. and Charles smiled as he sat down and Maxwell began to wipe his arm with alcohol in preparation for the needle. "And now, music lovers, here's some music you might love. It's called, uh... _Wish_... _Wish You_... Uh, I can't see it 'cause the record's spinning. Well, here it is, whatever it is.”

“How are things going, Maxwell?” Charles asked as he felt the prick of the needle.

“Today’s blood bank special is AB neg, each and every one fresh squeezed from willing, and sometimes unwilling, donors, unfortunately you’re only my third pint, and I struggled to get Major Burns’ blood.” Maxwell paused to listen to the song, his thumb rubbing over Charles’ fingers as he held his hand. “Listen to that. I hate that song. They were playing it in the pool hall right before I went in for my physical.” Maxwell huffed as if the song had committed a personal offense against him. “I'd just put the 3 ball in the side pocket. 4 in the corner. Told Hymie to hold on to my money, and I'd be back in a half hour with 4-F printed on my chest.”

Charles laughed as he kissed Maxwell’s cheek. “I suppose that was not the case?”

Maxwell scowled. “I walked in there talking Lebanese. I had my eyes crossed. I had measle dots painted on my face. It went over like a lead salami…” A thoughtful look passed over his face as he placed a hand on his hip. “I wonder if Hymie still has my money.” 

Charles sighed as he closed his eyes and leaned back against the mess table. “Alright, get O’Reilly on the job, have him hunt down another donor, this boy is going to need all the AB negative that he can get.”

“Right on it, Major baby.” Maxwell saluted, turning to hunt down the Panama hat of Father Mulcahy. “Father, take over here.” He called, and the Chaplain smiled as he walked over to Charles to check his blood and then move on to pick up Maxwell’s alcohol wipes and kit.

* * *

“And now, for the third time tonight, a request from our commanding station manager, that moldy oldie, _Sentimental Journey_.”

Charles sighed as he paced in front of the motor pool. Sergeant Zale had gone out to find their bomb disposal man, Sergeant Gribbles, when Maxwell had seen that he had AB negative blood, but had not donated. With the man out on R and R in Seoul, Zale had been the only one that even had a vague idea where his friend would be, and wouldn’t rat the man out to the M.P.’s if he ended up being in one of those places, so he had been sent to collect.

“Any luck?” Maxwell asked as he approached Charles. He had changed clothes twice so far and Charles could smell the laundry soap on his skin from where he had set blood-soaked clothes to soak in hopes it would clean them. Now he was in some evening wear, a long red silk dress that he had called his “bloodletting” dress when Rizzo had asked what sort of get up Maxwell was wearing.

“Not yet.” Charles stopped his pacing to stare at Maxwell. He always felt so under dressed next to the young Corporal, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything. He held out his hand to Maxwell, who smiled and took it, allowing himself to be easily drawn into Charles’ arms, into a slow dance to the tune of Sentimental Journey, as annoyed as they were about the Colonel’s fondness for the song, it was still a good song to have a gentle dance to. 

Charles twirled Maxwell, dipped him low to the ground, and they were suddenly illuminated by approaching headlights, Maxwell looking at the world upside down. “Looks like our blood donor is coming, Major, that’s Zale’s driving.”

Charles looked up and made a face at the pungent smell that filled the air as the jeep came to a halt. “It would seem so. I can smell his R & R from here.” Zale dragged out a stumbling, loose-limbed man who was laughing and guffawing, howling like some sort of sick dog.

Maxwell sighed as he grabbed Sergeant Gribbles’ other arm, helping Zale even as the man sighed in frustration. “Oh, boy. This guy is a beaut.”

“I don't know what good Bloody Mary here is gonna do ya.” Zale scoffed as he accepted Maxwell’s help in steering his friend. No matter their differences, when it came to their jobs and the patients, Zale and Maxwell could get along. 

“I suppose we can just pour him on the rocks and serve him in the O Club if all else fails.” Maxwell turned his head away. “Phew, what breath!” 

Charles checked Gribbles’ eyes, made sure that he didn’t have obvious signs of hepatitis as the man grinned up at him drunkenly. “You'd be surprised. I've seen successful transfusions with 20% alcohol.” Charles nodded. “He’s good. Healthy at least.”

“Twenty percent?” Maxwell gave a low whistle as he began to unsteadily lead both Gribbles and Zale to the Swamp where their patient was waiting for his AB negative. “That'd give Dracula a lost weekend.”

Gribbles howled and sang to the night sky, likely waking the entire camp as he did so, “Gonna drink a sentimental journey So show me the way to go home.”

Charles raised a brow at Zale. “Bomb disposal? Really?”

“He's bombed, all right.” Zale grunted as he got Gribbles on his correct feet once more. “We didn't need headlights. His nose lit us all the way.”

Gribbles turned his head wildly, staring at Maxwell, “Hey, lady, where's my old buddy, Sergeant Grale?”

Zale snarled as he shook his friend. “Zale. Zale!”

Gribbles whipped his head around and laughed loudly, “Hey, there ya are.” He grabbed at Zale’s face, pinching his cheek and shaking the man’s head. “Hey, you're a cute little bugger, ya little bugger.”

“Watch it. You're wilting the face. Come on, you booze hound.” Zale hauled his friend along

“Well, we're either going to get blood or vin ordinaire.” Charles sighed. “Zale, unbottle him, dilute him with black coffee, and pour him into the Swamp. Just don't spill anything, we need it all.”

“Hey, Major, think that after he saves the kid’s life, we can hook him up to the still?” Maxwell grunted as he opened the Swamp door, Charles overseeing the two stumbling to get Gribbles sat down with a cup of the disgusting excuse for coffee that they had left in the Swamp.

“Major baby, I feel bad hooking this clean, wholesome youth up to this stinking drunk.” Maxwell said as he prepared the needles, wiping down Gribbles’ arm and not even waiting for the coffee to take effect.

“We don’t have much more of a choice, we need all the medically trained personnel we can spare, and Gribbles isn’t needed at the moment.”

“I bet you he wakes up singing "Sweet Adeline." And he wakes up singing "How Dry I Am".” Zale scoffed as he stood. “I’m gonna go grab some coffee, I’ll keep an eye on him once you got him hooked up.”

“Hey, Zale?” Maxwell called, causing the Brooklynite to turn and look at him. “Thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it,” Zale said, tacking on quickly, “Queer.” So that neither Charles nor Maxwell were mistaken into thinking he liked them.

Maxwell waited until the man was seated down, sighing and rubbing his eyes as he grabbed a mug of coffee. When Zale was settled, Maxwell turned to Charles. “It's beddy-bye time for you, Major baby, Captain Hunnicutt can take over now.”

“I don’t have anywhere better to be.” Hunnicutt said from where he was laying on his cot, grunting as he sat up and rubbed his face. “I’ll keep Zale company, you two go ahead and rest.”

“Let me know if he deteriorates,” Charles said simply with a heavy sigh. “Hopefully we won’t have to operate again.”

“I’ll keep you posted.”

As Maxwell and Charles made their way back to their tent, Maxwell sighed happily and leaned his head against Charles’ shoulder. “We made it.”

“Of course we did,” Charles smiled. “We Winchesters are superior by sheer virtue.”

“I’m not a Winchester.”

“We could change that when we get to Boston. Would you like that?”

Maxwell paused, smiled up at Charles and said, “Maxwell Q. Winchester… Rings a nice bell, doesn’t it?”


	42. The General's Practicioner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawkeye and Winchester are tapped as potential candidates for General Korshak's personal physician.

Charles hated spectators in the operating room just as much as Pierce did. Maybe even more. He didn’t like laymen kibitzing over his work and certainly didn’t like the Army’s particular brand of captive audience. Generals and Colonels were all well and good when they were medical men trained to perform surgery, to give a helping hand. General Hammond and General Barker were good men to have on hand when things went afoul. 

But this Colonel who followed Potter into the O.R. wasn’t even scrubbed up, just had a mask thrown over his face as he observed the doctors like his own personal floor show. Potter had once said that Colonels were no good; they were so close to General that they could taste the stars. This Charles was certain was no exception.

“Where do you want him?” Straminsky called quickly as he came in with a fresh litter. 

They had grown lazy, Charles was sure, being the one M*A*S*H* with the largest number of doctors on their staff, but they were adjusting, finding a way to work with their diminished numbers since McIntyre had left. Without McIntyre there it was a struggle to adjust, to keep up during deluges, but even then it was more of just missing having an extra set of helpful hands to have that were well rested. Charles as exhausted, so were the others he was sure, but there was no end in sight.

“Let Pierce take him, I’m going on break.” Burns shouted as he stripped his gloves off, stepping away from his station. 

“I’m elbow deep in this guy’s intestines, Frank, someone else is gonna have to take him.”

“Houlihan, you can close for me?” Charles asked. 

“Of course.” She nodded, and Charles stripped off his gloves.

“Corporal Klinger, assist me,” Charles called as the Corporal finished unloading the patient onto an empty table. Maxwell pulled on a gown and his own pair of gloves before he helped Charles put on a new pair of gloves. “His lung needs to be drained and inflated.”

“Shrapnel tore him up pretty bad.” Maxwell said as he looked at the young man’s chest and belly, torn up to the point where most of his organs were unrecognizable. “Not sure I’m ready for this level of assistance, Major.”

“You’ll do beautifully, Maxwell,” Charles murmured as he held out his hand. “Sponge, have that suction on standby.”

They worked carefully for a few minutes, Charles every so often quizzing Maxwell on the various organs they were or were not finding. Soon they had removed the destroyed remains of a kidney, carved out a chunk of a liver, and carefully sewn up half a lung that was missing. Then the man’s heart stopped. 

“Major, no pulse.”

“You’re sure?”

Maxwell glanced down and shook his head, “The machine isn’t picking it up either.”

“Alright, be calm,” Charles said, even as his own heart picked up in tempo. “Rib spreader, darling, there you go, between ribs four and five.” An incision, and Charles wished that his hands were smaller so that this would not make the bone groan as loudly as it did at the pressure of Charles’ large palm reaching in to massage and coax the heart back into motion. “Prepare a chest tube, darling, we’re going to need it for his lung.” 

“That’s the long bendy thing, right?”

“Exactly right, the snake.” Charles nodded even as he continued his careful massage. “Check his pulse.”

“Nothing yet.” Maxwell shook his head, trying the man’s neck and wrist both before he looked at the tracker. 

“That’s alright. The human brain can go without blood flow for seven minutes before it dies, four minutes before lasting damage occurs. We still have two minutes.” Charles tried to believe his own words as he carefully worked, and then he felt the heart move on it’s own. 

“Pulse.” Maxwell said as he rested his fingers on the man’s neck. “Okay…” Maxwell looked at the clock on the wall of the O.R.. “He’s at forty… Sixty… Back in the normal range.”

Charles breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. “Excellent work, Nurse.”

“Not a nurse yet.” Maxwell smiled behind his own mask. “But thank you, Doctor.”

“We need more blood over here, B+.”

“Right away.” One of the corpsmen went to grab a bottle, only to be blocked by the visiting Colonel.

“Colonel?”

“Yes, Doctor?” The man called.

“Have you ever had a first row seat to an amputation?” Charles called, his voice light and polite. 

“No, Doctor.”

“If you don’t move out of the way you will have one to your own.”

The Colonel jumped at that, startled by Charles’ boldness, but moved aside, allowing the corpsman to whisper and apology and collect the required blood.

Hours later Charles and Maxwell were together in their tent, exhausted and as clean as they could be without braving the stampede to the showers. Potter entered after a brief knock to find Charles washing the Corporal’s hair, carefully massaging suds into Maxwell’s scalp as the younger man moaned softly and sighed happily, like a contented cat being stroked and scratched behind the ears. 

“Well, Winchester, if you’re taking on a new occupation I might not have to worry about losing one of my surgeons.”

“Beg pardon?” Charles asked with a raised brow. “Did you gamble me in a poker game?”

“I'd never throw you into the pot unless I had at least two pair.”

“You’re generous, I’d throw him in if I had four cards in a flush,” Maxwell said, eyes still closed as he smirked.

Charles snorted as he grasped the small coffee pot that he had placed on the stove, pouring the warm water over Maxwell’s head. “Thank you, Colonel, and who might you have gambled with for me?”

“Ever hear of General Korshak?” Potter asked as he watched Maxwell relax into his salon treatment.

“Is he related to "General Chaos"?” Maxwell asked as Charles continued to scrub at his dark hair. “I sent him a photograph of me in that Gilda dress. Threatened to write a letter to his wife saying that he was sleeping with me.”

“Same guy.” Potter said as he raised a brow at Maxwell. “What did he do?”

“Sent me back a letter asking if I wanted to actually have that affair.”

“Might be best for you to make yourself scarce if we see some extra brass coming down the road,” Potter sighed. “General Ted Korshak sent that colonel up here to scout out a personal physician. He’s tapped Hawkeye and you, Winchester. Hawkeye is not even house trained, and that Colonel was impressed with your work in O.R. today.”

“Why?” Charles asked curiously. 

“Prestige.” Potter shrugged and shook his head. “Found out some other three-star had his own doctor and decided he couldn't live without one. Actually, for the doctor, it's easy duty. You eat well, hotel beds, and the hours aren't bad.” Potter looked at Charles with a raised brow. “I know that’s what you want, to go back to Tokyo, but I ask you to reconsider it if you’re offered the position.”

Charles sighed and combed his fingers through Maxwell’s hair, those dark eyes looking up at him with a curiously raised brow. “Colonel Potter, I have to say…” Charles rolled the words around in his mouth. “If the opportunity is offered, I will take it. I have Maxwell to consider, and if I can secure a place in Tokyo for both of us, then I would not give it up.”

“You’re one of the best, Winchester, I’ll give you that, and I’d hate to lose you,” Potter smiled. “I’d hate to lose Klinger even more, he’s my one true Jack of All Trades.”

* * *

“Major Winchester?” A gruff voice called and Charles didn’t even look up from the chart he was examining. 

“If it is moving and should not, then sit down, if it is not moving and it should stay standing.” Charles said simply as he made a note then placed the clipboard down. When he turned and saw Colonel Bidwell and General Korshak, he froze. He didn’t salute, his hands did not leave his pockets, but he did nod. “General. Colonel.”

“You’re a pistol, aren’t you?” Korshak said with a raised brow. “Is everyone here civilian down to their bones?”

“Unfortunately that’s what you get for drafting civilian doctors.” Charles tilted his head as he looked at the General, taking in his breathing, his voice. The man was already well on his way to the grave. “We are notoriously poor soldiers.”

Korshak laughed at that, removing his cigar from his lips as he raised a brow at Charles. “I will say that between you and Pierce, you seem to at least know where your bread is buttered.”

Charles gave a brief, tight smile, the polite sort of thing that he often gave to his parents over dinner back in the States. “Can I give you a tour?”

“I’d rather see you in action.” Korshak gestured. “Come on, Winchester, give me a physical.”

A pause, then a gesture. “Follow me into my office.”

Korshak followed Charles into the general examination room, a more private area than the mess tent when army physicals needed to be performed on every person in the camp. It was basic and close-quartered, but it was enough for Charles to perform the basics. 

“So, Winchester, I hear you used to work at Boston General.”

“Head of Thoracic Surgery.” Charles said simply as he checked the man’s lungs. “If we were in Boston General I’d be charging you $72 for just this consultation. Not to mention the price for me to perform a surgery on your lungs.”

Korshak laughed, rough and genuine, thinking that Charles was joking. “This guy kills me, Bidwell!”

“What higher praise for a physician.” Charles said dryly.

“I like you, Winchester.” Korshak stuck his cigar into his mouth and grinned. 

“Major baby, you busy in-” Maxwell froze as he came in, holding a tray of food from the mess. “Ah… I think I’ve interrupted something.”

“Corporal darling, can you bring me the pressure cuff?” Charles asked, gesturing to the cabinet of medical supplies. He smiled at Maxwell, to put him at ease, even as Bidwell’s eyes bore holes into Charles’ skull.

“Right away, Major.”

“Corporal Darling, was it?” Korshak asked with a grin around his cigar. “That’s a strange name. British?”

“Toledoan,” Maxwell gave a weak smile. “I’m actually Corporal Klinger.”

“Klinger!” Korshak laughed, slapping his thigh. “Brad Barker’s Klinger?”

“That’s the one,” Maxwell handed Charles the pressure cuff and folded his hands over his stomach nervously. “Need me for anything else, Major?”

“If you can be spared,” Charles raised a brow at Maxwell, gaging the other man’s nervousness. “Your pressure is a bit high, General.”

“Consider it a side effect of the Corporal.”

“He has that effect on people.” Charles said simply before he continued on. “Now, General, drop your trousers.”

The General undid his buckle and dropped his fatigues, turning to bend over the table while Charles snapped on a pair of gloves. Colonel Bidwell was glaring at him the entire time, scowling at the mere concept of Charles putting his hands on the General after Maxwell revealed their relationship. 

“That’s some ring, Corporal.” Bidwell said, conversationally. 

“Keeps down on the wrestling matches guys try to get into.” Maxwell said as lightly as he could. 

“You seemed to have a different attitude when you sent the General that photograph.”

Maxwell shrugged and attempted to smile around the awkward topic. “If it makes you feel any better, I sent the same photo and letter to three different generals trying to get sent home.”

“You could be doing time in Leavenworth.”

“I like to think that the General can take a joke.” Maxwell said, turning his head to smile at General Korshak.

“You’re a pistol, Corporal.”

“Only when I’m loaded.” Maxwell smiled, charming and sweet, and Charles couldn’t help but smile. 

“Could we offer you some M*A*S*H* hospitality, General, Colonel?” Charles asked as he finished up his examination. 

“Color me intrigued, Winchester!” The General put on his shirt and Charles rested his fingers on Maxwell’s shoulder. 

They went to the Swamp, and when Pierce and Hunnicutt saw the General they were quick to leave, avoiding the mere idea of being in the same room as the brass. Charles unclamped the still and poured two martini glasses for the Colonel and the General, hoping that the rustic charm of the Swamp was enough to win over the General. 

“So, what would you say about my health, honestly?” Korshak asked as he sat down on Burns’ chair, his boots resting on the man’s cot while Colonel Bidwell stood at ease, overseeing the entire situation. 

“Honestly?” Charles said simply. “I’ve seen healthier cadavers. Your blood pressure is through the roof, your lungs sound like a screen door in a windstorm, and I’m fairly sure that you need enough dental work to pay for Dr. Futterman’s divorce.” He sat down on the furthest edge of Burns’ cot and Maxwell fidgeted as he watched, an involved observer watching the way Charles gambled with their futures.

“I’m healthy for a man my age,” General Korshak said with a scowl as he drank his glass of what could loosely be called gin. 

“If you were 103, General.” Charles said simply. He brushed his hand over Maxwell’s waist and looked up at him. “Could you go fetch that care package from my sister?”

Maxwell hesitated but he nodded and smiled. “Right away, Major.” He left the Swamp, making his way slowly over to his tent, giving Charles a chance to try and charm the General.

“Didn’t know that Majors got houseboys issued with their clusters these days,” General Korshak asked with a grin. “Corporal Klinger was legendary at the parties Baker used to throw, before he got transferred stateside.”

“He’s legendary at the front as well,” Charles chuckled. “Other hospitals have stories about him.”

“It’s a shame he couldn’t come along with you.” Korshak leaned back. “He’d be a hit in Tokyo.”

“Ah… General, I’ve become quite fond of Klinger. He’s become indispensable to my work as a surgeon.” Charles cleared his throat. “I’ve trained him to be a rather attentive nurse and you’ll never find a more dedicated soldier and corpsman.”

“We got nurses aplenty in Tokyo.” Korshak waved him off. “And how much surgery do you plan on doing on me, Doctor?”

Charles worked his jaw, feeling his heart pounding as he considered things. If he left, he might be able to find a way to get Maxwell to Tokyo, away from the fighting. But if Korshak was resistant to the idea, and he did find Maxwell _amusing_ at least… Then he’d never see Maxwell again, at least not until they returned him. _If_ they managed to return home.

Charles stood, clearing his throat as he swallowed down his glass of whiskey in one go. 

“General… I’m afraid I’ll have to decline your offer to come to Tokyo as your personal physician.” He looked at the man, his heart pounding and he slowly smiled. “Might I suggest another surgeon who might be better suited to you?”

“Who?”

“Major Frank Burns.” Charles said simply. “He ran his own practice at Fort Wayne, and he has been considered one of our better physicians. If you may permit me, I’d like to introduce you two. I think you absolutely deserve one another.”

“Well, bring him in!”

* * *

“You let _Frank Burns_ take that job?” Maxwell asked with a surprised, concerned look as they sat in their tent later that night. “What happened to our sure way out of here?”

“ _My_ sure way out of here,” Charles sighed. “If I got transferred out to be Korshak’s personal physician, you’d be left behind. The invitation did not include a plus one.”

“But if you left then you’d be able to get me out to Tokyo too.”

“I couldn’t gamble like that,” Charles shook his head. “I didn’t have even two pair in my hand with the General. I wasn’t going to run the risk of you being killed, three miles from the front, while I tried to pull strings to get you to Tokyo.”

Maxwell sighed and rubbed his eyes before he cuddled up to Charles. “We’re down another surgeon… But at least Korshak got a doctor he deserved.” A slow grin spread across his face. “Must have killed you to not tell him about the time he dropped his bubblegum in a patient.”

“More than you could ever imagine. I gave Burns a _glowing_ recommendation. It was as if the man wrote it himself.”

The two of them jumped at the sound of screaming from Houlihan’s tent, leaping to their feet in order to check the compound. 

Burns was sniveling in the compound as Houlihan shouted and screamed and kicked at him. “Fink! Rat! Ferret-face!”

“Margaret, please!”

“You take your face, your stupid married refusing to divorce face and go crawling to Tokyo! If you show your face here again I’ll rip it clean off your skull!”

Charles looked at Maxwell, then at Houlihan’s furious form, and said, “I wonder what he even said to her that was worse than usual?”

“Probably tried to give a Dear Jane letter in person. He should have just left the letter on her pillow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Season 5.


	43. Fade Out, Fade In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With their numbers whittled down to four surgeons, Charles finds himself overwhelmed. Exhaustion and amphetamines lead to horrible visions.

Charles stood over patient that was filled with the fetid smell of perforated bowl, trying to find the end of it as Nurse Whitfield sponged and suctioned as best as she could. It felt like the amount of ruined bowel was endless. He could be mistaken for a magician with how he pulled aside more and more bowel, one foot, two, three, four. By the time he got to six feet he was ready to give up, only to be distracted by the sight of a white gloved hand placing a blue and white china soup bowl in front of him. 

“What on earth is-” He looked up and instead of Nurse Whitfield in front of him there was his father. The man scowled at him, his pencil mustache perfectly waxed. He seemed larger than life even here, his long fingers folded before he opened his napkin, spread it out on his lap, and picked up a silver soup spoon from the tray of surgical instruments. “Father?”

Those piercing blue eyes that everyone said his own gaze matched perfectly, was fixed on him, his thinning black hair combed to the side and his dark blue suit perfectly pressed, clean of any blood while Charles stood before him in surgical gown, gloves, mask, and beanie, sweat dripping down his forehead. He looked down when his father’s spoon lowered towards the patient, the bowl of thick red borscht a favourite of his father’s that made Charles sick to his stomach to look at.

“Well? Speak up, Charles. What have you done today?”

Charles’s fingers spasmed as he pulled another foot of bowel, looking down to watch his father’s hand spoon more of the soup into his spoon. “Well, I performed, four - no five - bowel resections, removed two lungs, as well as removed approximately fifteen pounds of shrapnel from twelve young men, including several pieces that were near the heart.” Charles stuttered, tried so hard to make sure that he showed his father how well he had performed. 

His father sighed, and the soup bowl was half empty already, where had it all gone? “Is that all?”

Charles struggled, swallowed, thought of his day, which was ticking away into the thirty-sixth hour already. “Well, ah, well, no, I also performed five amputations. I could not save the legs of some of the young men, the limbs were not viable for arterial transplant.” So much, but where had it all come from, how long had it taken?

“So you’re a failure as well as a queer.” The senior Winchester doesn’t even look up from his soup as he scraped and finished the bowl. When that white gloved hand returned, it had a rubber glove on rather than a cotton glove, removing the bowl, and revealing the organs of the poor soldier that Charles was working on. 

“I’ve done nothing but my best.” Charles choked out, waiting for the salad portion of the meal to be placed in front of his father.

“Doctor?” Nurse Whitfield’s voice called out and Charles’ head snapped up. He blinked at her, relieved that his father was gone. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine. This poor boy won’t be. Ten feet of missing bowel, he’ll weigh significantly less than when he came in here.”

“Just make sure he’s alive, Winchester,” Potter’s voice called out. “That’s all we ask.”

* * *

“No, don’t touch me.” The patient laying before Charles shoved away the hand of the corpsman working as anesthesiologist. 

“Anderson, gloves,” Charles called out as he looked down at the man, observing his chest which was torn open. The patient still struggled against the pain and Charles scowled. “Get him under, damnit.” 

“I’m trying not to make him worse!” The corpsman snapped, only to earn a fist decked into his face. The patient stumbled up, screaming through the adrenaline, and grabbed the glass IV bottle of plasma that he had been hooked up to and threw it. 

Anderson screamed as the glass connected with her face, sending her stumbling back onto the floor. 

Charles raced around the edge of the table as two more corpsmen came to pin down and tie the wrists of the man to the operating table. “Someone help!” Charles called out as he framed Anderson’s face with his hands. She was bleeding and her eye was bruised, he couldn’t tell the damage his entire body was so tense and his mind whirled like a dervish. “Someone _help_ her!” He turned to look around, blindly calling out to the other white clad figures, and then turned back to Anderson.

But it wasn’t Anderson. It was a small, young Honoria. Barely two years old. Screaming with the lung strength that only small children were capable of, blood dripping into her eye as she hiccupped and sobbed and flailed her tiny limbs. Charles’ heart stopped and he felt a sympathetic sob catch in his own throat, tears soaking into his mask as he stared down at the tiny form of his baby sister.

“I didn’t mean to, oh, oh, Honoria, Honoria, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” He choked as he turned to shout at the room at large, blinded by the white lights overhead, unable to even see anyone who could help before he turned back to the sight of his little sister squalling, in pain. “Someone get her out of here and into x-ray!”

“Charles!” Hunnicutt’s voice sounded distant, but Charles felt hope soar in his chest. “Charles, let her go!”

“I can’t, I can’t, I caused this, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, Honoria.”

Hunnicutt’s hand rested on his shoulder, carefully prying him away, “Charles, that’s Nurse Anderson, not Honoria.”

Charles froze before he looked back at the younger doctor, then at the woman below him, and there was Anderson, passed out from the head trauma. “What, I… I’m sorry… I’ve just…”

“It’s been forty hours, Winchester, it’s understandable.” Potter sighed. “You’re our chest man, we need you to stay here, Hunnicutt will take care of Nurse Anderson. Let’s get through this wave then you can be the first one to rest.”

Charles choked back another sob as he stood and let Anderson be carried away. “I’m so sorry, Colonel. That was… Unacceptable.”

* * *

He couldn’t sleep. With the amount of amphetamine coursing through his veins, Charles couldn’t do much else other than just think, trapped with his own thoughts whirling about his skull like bats escaping their belfry. He cradled a mug of cold coffee in his hands, and slowly turned a paper napkin with a stale doughnut on it. It was a paltry breakfast, but at hour fifty, while his fellow surgeons slept between the last deluge and the next, he could do little other than pop another two pills into his mouth and swallow down a bitter drink of coffee. 

“I think you should move back to Beacon Hill, Chuck.”

Charles’ head shot up from where it had rested on his folded hands, his heart pounding as he stared at the face of a love long lost. 

“I don’t understand, Richie?” Charles stared at the Vanderhoeven heir, the young man smoothing his hands over his pale blonde hair, looking away from him in embarrassment.

“Calm down, Chuck, the waiters are staring.”

Charles breathed deeply, composing himself as he stared at the young man. “I still don’t understand, you owe me an explanation at the very least.”

Vanderhoeven scoffed, refusing to meet Charles’ betrayed gaze while his fingers fiddled with the doughnut on the napkin between them. It was so strange seeing him here, in the mess tent in Korea, in his beautiful blue tie that Charles had gifted him. “What we had was fun when we were in school, but we need to move on. I have a fiancee, you’re going to meet a beautiful girl one day.” Vanderhoeven sighed and looked at Charles for the first time since he had begun this conversation.

“But I… I thought we… I thought that you would leave her for me. You said that you loved me.” Charles’ voice cracked as he stared at the other man, feeling so very small in the face of pain. “I thought-”

“Then you were a fool, Winchester.” Vanderhoeven rolled his eyes.

“Richie-”

“Chuck, I don’t love you.” It was delivered as simply as if he was saying that it was winter outside. “I lied, Major.”

Major? That wasn’t Richie Vanderhoeven… Charles blinked and rubbed his eyes, only to look up and see the carved ivory face of his old love replaced with the smooth clay darkness of Maxwell’s face. Warm and gentle and touchable, where Vanderhoeven had felt like he would leave razor blade cuts across his skin when he touched him.

“Major, you need to sleep.” Maxwell smiled at him from across the table, his fingers reaching out to gently stroke over Charles’ wrist, coaxing and gentle as he watched Charles’ confused gaze focus. “I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes, and you’ve been staring off into space.”

Charles shook the last vision from his head, breathing deeply before he leaned in to kiss Maxwell’s fingers gently. “Sorry… Lost in thought.”

“Sleeping with your eyes open, you mean.” Maxwell looked at him, worried and quiet. 

“No, no, I can’t sleep.” Charles sighed as he stood, draining the last of his coffee and abandoning the doughnut. “I’ll shower, then wait for more wounded.”

“Here, I’ll shower with you, baby, make sure you get squeaky clean.” Maxwell smiled as he looked up at Charles. “Maybe I can convince you to have a nap with me.”

* * *

His arms stung from having to scrub again so soon, but after a paltry three hours of no wounded, they were summoned back to the O.R.. Maxwell was outside, directing corpsmen, performing triage on patients that were less urgent than the more pressing ones already being placed on operating tables in O.R.. Potter and Hunnicutt were already starting their work, and Charles didn’t even know where Pierce was. Perhaps O’Reilly was hunting through the man’s usual haunts to find him and whatever nurse he had cajoled into spending their precious hours together.

“You’re lucky you’re here in Tokyo with me.” 

Charles’ head snapped up and he stared at the wall opposite the scrub sink and felt his jaw tense in fury at the sight of Colonel Baldwin, the man that had cast him down from Tokyo to this khaki Korean hell.

“I’m… I’m not in Tokyo, I’m in Korea.” He reminded the Colonel, who seemed to ignore him to continue on his own speech.

“You know your father arranged it that you were sent here with me, as a favor to him.” The Colonel rubbed a finger over his painter’s moustache to cover a cruel smirk. “You just had to go and overstay your welcome, be an arrogant little prick.”

“I’m different now,” Charles says softly as he scrubbed his arms and hands and fingers raw. “I’ve changed.”

Baldwin laughed, calloused and cold, as if he was in the Officer’s club in Tokyo, rather than the scrub room of a M*A*S*H* unit. “People like you don’t just change. You’re a Winchester, who you are is ingrained in every blue bloodcell.” Charles looked at the man and felt his chest tighten as he stared at Baldwin, feeling as if some part of him was being ground into the dirt.

He shook his head, thought of Maxwell, of little Korean orphans, of a 98% survival rate. “No, that’s not true, it’s not.” He thought of Houlihan and their quiet friendship, thought of the enlisted men who looked to Charles for help, of Straminsky, Rizzo, and O’Reilly. “I’ve changed. I’m not the same man you’ve sent here.” He thought of Maxwell’s smile, like he held the entire world and all the heavens in the palm of his hand and had offered it to Maxwell.

“Chuckles, you okay?” The door to the scrub room opened and Charles jumped as he turned just in time to see Pierce’s eyes fix on him. “You’re really pale, sweating through your scrubs.” The man placed his hand on Charles’ forehead before he could fight it, only for Charles to shrug the man away.

“I’m fine.” He managed weakly. He felt dizzy, exhausted, but he had to work, he had to pull his weight and help.

Pierce’s lips thinned in concern as he looked at Charles. “You’re not feverish.”

“No, I’m not, I’m fine.” Charles turned his scrubbed raw hands held away from his body, away from Pierce as the other man began to scrub himself. “I’ll make it through this deluge.” Charles cleared his throat and straightened, tall and steady. 

He walked into O.R. and looked around before selecting a chest wound. He stood over the man and breathed deeply before he looked up to see who would be assisting him. Maxwell smiled behind his mask, standing across from Charles before he reached over to tie on Charles’ mask. Charles stared as he bent over the soldier on his table and breathed in the smell of everything, feeling his stomach churn. Blood, alcohol, fecal matter, urine, and stomach acid filled his nose even through his mask. 

“Come along, Maxwell.” He said as he straightened, staring at his husband across the casualty they would be working on together. “We have promises to keep, and miles to go before we sleep, and miles to go before we sleep.”


	44. The Light That Failed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles makes a nearly fatal mistake, and Maxwell discovers a secret.

“Bigelow?” Charles called as he looked at the patient writhing on a too thin cot. He sighed as the dim half light of post-op cast everything in high relief and deep shadow. “I've a man in pain here.”

“I'll be there in a minute.” Bigelow called as she finished up writing a note on a chart.

Charles felt impatience well in him as he muttered to himself, “She'll be here in a minute.” He sighed and walked to the medicine cabinet, grabbing a bottle at the end of the row of morphine vials. “It's a miracle any of you patients survive here. I have to do it myself.” He picked up a hypodermic needle and carefully measured out a quarter grain of morphine as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed. “I’ll have you know, soldier, it was never like this at Boston general.” He pressed the needle into the man’s arm and administered the drug. 

And immediately knew something was wrong. Where the man had been shaking, breathing heavily through his agony, both hands clutching the edge of the bedframe, he suddenly went limp, his eyes rolling back as a slow, quiet breath escaped him.

“Bigelow?” Charles called as the door banged open and Pierce entered in a gust of freezing wind. “Pierce!” He looked up, his eyes wide in relief at the sight of his colleague. 

“What’s the matter, Winchester?” Pierce asked as he sat on the edge of the bed. 

“Well, uh, this man was in pain.” Charles felt his hands start to shake for the first time in his professional. “I just gave him an injection of morphine, now he's hardly breathing.”

“There's a pulse, just barely.” Pierce checked before he looked down at the bottle resting on the man’s stomach. “This is what you gave him?”

“Yes.” Charles said, checking the patient’s eyes as Pierce started to move to his feet. 

“This is curare. Didn't you read the bottle?”

Charles leapt into movement, his pulse pounding double time to make up for the lost pulse of the man before him. He breathed and counted, leaning over to breathe into the man’s mouth while Pierce yelled for an ambu bag and prostigmin and entropine.

“He's completely paralyzed, Charles.” Pierce said as he pushed the man back. “Move, move, I have an ambu bag.”

Pierce was bagging the young man, and Charles stuttered as he stared, keeping a hand on the young man’s pulse. When Bigelow brought him the requested drugs, Charles measured them out, checking the bottles before he did so. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s just so dark, the lights, I thought it was morphine.”

It felt like a small eternity, and Charles’ pulse pounded so loud in his skull that it made his hearing fade to something distant. He heard Pierce as if the man was yelling across the mine field, barely audible from such a great distance. “He's starting to breathe on his own. His pulse is stronger. He's going to make it.” Pierce looked at him and shook Charles’ shoulder as the man pulled back from the patient he had nearly killed. “What gives, Winchester? I expect this from Frank Burns, may he never return, not from you.”

“I-I-I-I-I,” Honoria would probably laugh at the sound of her brother stuttering, unless she knew the situation. 

“How long has your pulse been doing the Merry Widow Waltz?” Pierce asked as he stared at Charles, moving him away from the patient’s bed. “The nurses got this, Charles, come on, move.”

It felt so strange moving away from the patient, and his vision was going grey at the edges as they moved out of post-op and into the compound. “I don’t know…”

“Charles, you’re soaked through with sweat.”

“A man nearly died because of me.” Charles whispered. “I just wanted to help him. He was in pain.”

“Charles?” Pierce gripped at the other man’s arm only to stumble under his weight. “Charles!”

Charles breathed for a moment, but it was a halting, stuttered thing. “The… The light was too dim.” He said, right before he passed out.

* * *

When Charles woke it was to the sort of tense silence that must have followed Hiroshima’s bombing. When the fallout hadn’t settled just yet and there was nothing but ash and cratered earth. Charles slowly opened his eyes and saw Maxwell staring at him with a calm, quiet sort of anger on his face. It was an alien expression, like the face of the man with his finger on the button to destruction, and he was going to push it to carry out a vengeful grudge. The candles that Maxwell had acquired from the Sears catalog that had made its rounds cast the young man’s face in high relief, making the sweep of his cheekbones and the shape of his nose stand out, deepening his eyes so that they were glittering and dark, viper-sharp as they held Charles captive.

“You lied to me.” Maxwell said softly, staring down at Charles.

Charles took a moment to catalog his surroundings. He was in their bed, on his customary side, changed out of his fatigues into his pajamas. Maxwell was sitting on the edge of the bed, facing Charles, which was a good sign at least. 

What wasn’t a good sign was the brown bottle of amphetamines that had migrated from the lab into his footlocker once more. Charles looked at Maxwell, who was clutching the bottle so hard that his knuckles turned white. When Charles looked over at the rest of their quarters he saw that the entire tent had been cast into absolutely chaos, Maxwell having torn the entire place apart in order to find the one thing that didn’t belong. Charles took a deep, shaky breath, feeling his skin chill as fear gripped him.

“Maxwell, I can explain-”

The bottle shattered against the tent door with enough force that it knocked the door open and then the wind knocked it closed again. “I don’t give a _damn_ about your excuses, Charles!” Maxwell shouted, standing up from the bed to stare down at Charles. “You _lied_ to me! You said you were off of them, that you’d tell me if you felt like you were relapsing!”

“Maxwell-”

“You can lie to the enlisted, you can lie to the other officers, I don’t even care if you lied to Potter, but you had the _audacity_ to lie to _me_?!” Maxwell jabbed a finger in his own chest, his voice cracking with emotion as he stared at his incapacitated husband. “You want to know what I spent all night doing? By fucking candle light? Counting those damn pills, looking at our logs of how many tablets we were meant to have on hand!”

Charles felt his face go even paler as he stared at Maxwell, the younger man staring at Charles with tears running down his face. 

“Months, Charles. This has been happening for _months_.”

“I didn’t take them every day. Unless there was a deluge on.”

“Fuck, _Charles_.” His mascara was already ruined when Charles had awoken, but it got worse as Maxwell began to sob. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“Because I was ashamed.” Charles whispered. “How could I? How could I tell you that I had been on them for nearly a year. When the camp went dry during Burns’ command period.”

Maxwell’s legs seemed to give out as he sat on the edge of the bed, quietly staring at Charles. He looked like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t speak, knowing that Charles would not have the nerve to continue if he was interrupted. 

“It started with half a pill, just something to stop the withdrawl shakes while I dried out from the alcohol. We were overwhelmed, we needed to work.” 

“You could have told me.” Maxwell whispered, stroking his fingers over Charles’ hand, staring at the man.

“How could I?” Charles choked out. “How could I disappoint you like that?”

Maxwell gripped Charles’ hand tightly, and Charles was reminded that those slender fingers were stronger than they looked. He looked down where Maxwell’s dark digits cut across his own palm. His nails were perfectly manicured and painted and Charles stared at the bright colour, focused on it. “Charles, that’s what makes a marriage different than an affair. You’re gonna disappoint me sometimes, I’m gonna disappoint you sometimes. But we’re gonna get through it together. We’re gonna make it.” Maxwell sighed as he stood. “I’m gonna get some water and food for you. Dry you out.” He closed the door and Charles took a shaky breath as he collapsed on the bed.

He stared at the floor, littered with brown glass and white pills, and wondered how pathetic it would be to pick one out of the dirt and swallow it down just to stop the shakes and the nausea. But that was how he got to this point, wasn’t it? Just one to stave off withdrawl symptoms was how he had gone from half a pill to a whole one to two at a time. 

It’s how he got _here_.

* * *

Charles shook as he sat on the bed beside the soldier he had nearly killed. The lights were dim, no delivery of lightbulbs had arrived yet, instead they had gotten salt tablets, Bermuda shorts, and ice cream makers. It didn’t help Charles as he sweat out months worth of amphetamine use. He was shaking, his sheets had to be changed regularly as he sweat his way through them, his clothing, his blankets. Food looked, smelled, and tasted foul all at once and he had been unable to stomach even a mouthful of the mess tent’s food without vomiting it up again. When Maxwell came by to visit him it was always to spend a few paltry minutes before he had to run off to another duty or to actually rest in their tent. 

The first day had proven that Charles couldn’t be left alone in the tent while he recovered, he had chugged down two separate bottles of alcohol to fight through the shakes, to soothe them since Maxwell had thrown out the pills, drained them down the sink in the scrub room. 

“Soldier,” He called to his neighbour, and the man looked at him wearily. “What military madness brought you here?” He asked softly, and the young man hesitated before he sighed.

“I was out on patrol. On the way back to my company, I found another man's footprints in the snow. That's good, you know. You walk in his tracks, and you're safe from the mines.” The young man sighed and closed his eyes. “Then the footprints stopped.”

Charles frowned. “Stopped? What do you mean?”

“Where the snow turned to slush.” The soldier’s eyes remained closed as he thought of the memory, lingered on it. “I stood there a while in his last clear step. I was afraid to move. But it was so cold, anything had to be better than standing there freezing to death.”

“Were you right?” Charles asked softly.

“I don’t know. I took one, maybe two steps. That was it. Now I’m being sent home without a leg.”

“But you’re alive.” Charles said simply, shaking through another heavy chill. “That has to account for something.”

“How long have you been here, Doc?” The young man asked as he stared at Charles, thankfully not asking why he was now a patient alongside the other soldiers. 

“Two years.” Charles sighed. “Or nearly. It feels like an eternity.”

“You don’t have all your service points yet?”

“Sometimes I feel like I will never have enough.” Charles chuckled. “They might keep me here for the duration.” 

“Oh… I’m sorry.” A question filled the young man’s mind, spilling over into his eyes, from his lips. “How do you deal with it?”

“Poorly.” Charles said with a sigh. He held up his wrist, which had an I.V. sunk in, the tube taped down. “I developed an addiction to amphetamines to try and cope with this place.”

“Oh.” The soldier, a man who had had his leg blown off, pitied him. “I’m sorry.”

“Do as I say and not as I do.” Charles sighed as he laid back. 

“Is it rough?”

“Nausea, cold sweats, I can’t sleep properly, and my entire body has not stopped shaking for a moment. Currently I’m running a fever that is over a hundred degrees and likely have another week of all this and more before I work through everything and dry out.” Charles sighed and closed his eyes. “What’s worse, my sweet girl isn’t talking to me.”

“I’m sure she’s just worried, Doc.” The soldier smiled and Charles looked at him. “Must be tough for her. Seeing her doctor sick.”

Charles smiled at the young man, who smiled back. “I suppose you’re right, soldier.”

“She’ll come ‘round. I know it.”

Charles nodded as he closed his eyes and shuddered. “Thank you, soldier.”

“Bailey.”

“Bailey,” Charles smiled. “I’m Winchester.”

“Before I leave you gotta give me your address. I’ll send you Christmas cards every year.”

“I was the one that speared you with curare, Bailey.”

“Yeah, but from what I hear you were also the one that saved my life, and my leg. I think that that trumps the other thing.”

Charles couldn’t help but feel so stunned by that, staring at Bailey as his vision faded out and he passed into restless sleep.

* * *

When Charles finished his detoxification, a week after admission to the post-op ward, Maxwell finally spoke to him. They were in their tent, Maxwell finally stealing a long, deep kiss from his husband. They parted for breath and Maxwell’s nails dug into the man’s shoulder as he stared at Charles firmly.

“You lie to me like that again? You’ll _wish_ you were on the operating table with Captain Pierce holding the scalpel.”

Charles smiled down at him. “I promise, scouts honor.”

Maxwell sighed as he cuddled into the man’s embrace, kissing over Charles’ neck and jaw, standing on his tip toes to reach. “I love you, Charles. Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

“I love you too, Maxwell.” Charles held Maxwell closer, kissing at dark curls. “I swear I won’t lapse again.”


	45. Movie Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles takes Max out to a movie in an attempt to reconcile with his husband.

Movie Tonight  
Colonel Potter orders My Darling Clementine, and Charles and Klinger enjoy themselves.

“Maxwell?”

“Major?” 

Things had been difficult in the weeks following Charles’ lurching, struggling first days of sobriety. While they still shared a tent, their conversations had been more brief, they had both occupied themselves endlessly with their duties, even going so far as to pick up shifts so that they kept missing one another in the night. 

Charles sighed in relief at the sight of Father Mulcahy taking up the mantle of mailman. Maxwell had taken the job from O’Reilly, but recently Charles had begun to dread the man coming around only to hand off a letter or package with a frown and dismissive, “Here you go.”

“Thank you, Father,” Charles sighed as he looked at the letter from Honoria. From the thickness of the envelope she was dressing him down quite royally.

“How are things going, Winchester?”

“Miserably.” Charles sighed as he rubbed his eyes. “Maxwell won’t even look at me most days. I haven’t slept in the same bed as him since my hospitalization.”

“He’s feeling betrayed.” Mulcahy sat down across from Charles in the tent he and Maxwell shared. “I’m sure that he just needs to be reminded of who he married. He’s seeing you in a different light from that. Remind him.”

“Attention, all personnel. Colonel Potterwould like to address the personnel personally.” O’Reilly’s voice called over the P.A. and Charles sighed as he looked up at the ceiling, listening to the voices filtering over the P.A.. “There you go, sir.Just keep your fingeron that button.”

“Thank you, Corporal. Ahem. This is good news.” Potter’s voice called. “I know you've been working your butts off, if you’ll excuse me, and you're all as itchy as a dog at a flea circus.” Mulcahy chuckled at the metaphor and Charles couldn’t help but shake his head at the predictably folksy turn of phrase. “First of all, there's mail. That oughta cheer you up. And after supper in the mess tent, I've got a big treat for everybody. Something you're all gonna love to see. It's my kind of entertainment. My all-time favorite movie. Now, I'm saving the title till show time, after chow in the Mess Tent.” Charles could hear the excitement outside his tent and wondered how everyone could be so cheerful. “So bye-bye and buy bonds.” Potter signed off, only for him to clearly forget to pull back the microphone. “Oh, I shouldn't have said that.

O’Reilly’s voice whispered. “Oh, uh, take your finger off the button.”

“What?”

“They can hear what you're saying.”

“Oh.”

“I'd better handle this. Ahem. Uh, Colonel Potteris now finished with his message to the 4077.”

Mulcahy smiled broadly up at Charles and gave the man’s shoulder a firm pat. “That’s it! Take him to the movies!”

“Romantic,” Charles scoffed. “Crammed into the mess tent with the entirety of the 4077th?”

“Intimate, I hear,” Mulcahy laughed, smiling up at the man. “We’ll even have popcorn. You can share a helmet full.”

Charles stared at Mulcahy before he stood and quickly left the tent. “Thank you, Father, you’re a brilliant romantic, I’ll never forget that.”

“Just don’t go spreading it around!” Mulcahy laughed as he smiled at Charles’ back. 

He quickly crossed the compound to the Mess Tent, where he knew Maxwell was serving up what constituted as lunch in a M*A*S*H* unit. 

“No cutting in line, Major.” Maxwell said as he slopped food into another corpsman’s tray.

“Well, then I shall assist you in getting the line down.” He grabbed a spoon and stepped around to wedge himself between Maxwell and Straminsky. He picked up a spoon and began to ladle mashed potatoes. Maxwell blinked up at him, staring at the man as if his entire head had turned purple with green polkadots. 

“Major?”

“Come with me to the movies tonight,” Charles looked at Maxwell with a pleading gaze. 

“Can I have some of those potatoes, Major?” A nurse asked meekly and Charles slopped the food into her tray without looking, his eyes fixed on Maxwell’s face. 

“What do you say, Corporal, we can dress up to the nines, you can even use my opera glasses.”

Maxwell stared at him, and Charles could see the conflict of anger in those dark eyes, could see the way Maxwell worked his jaw, before a soft smile stole across his lips, however brief it was. “You better let me use those opera glasses, I’ve had my eye on them for a while.”

“Of course,” Charles smiled, slopping another serving of potatoes onto a tray. “I’ll see you this evening at our tent?”

“Of course,” Maxwell echoed, fighting a smile. “Just… One thing, Major?”

“Anything.” Charles answered quickly.

“Get out of my serving line, you’re messing up everyone’s trays.”

* * *

Charles hated Westerns. Absolutely and entirely. He could handle Maxwell’s deep seated secret love for musicals, it meant that Maxwell could be equally enthralled by opera, but Westerns were where Charles drew the line.

So when the movie’s credits played and a bunch of deep-voiced men began to sing the chorus of _My Darling Clementine_ , Charles felt dread seep into his chest.

“Oh, Alan Mowbray!” Maxwell clapped his hands in delight. He was wearing opera gloves, wrapped in fine green silk with his makeup done and hair set in a new style. He had called them finger waves, an old 1920’s style that Charles found imminently delightful to look at. “I never miss an Alan Mowbray picture.”

“Celebrity crush?” Charles teased gently, his hand resting upon Maxwell’s shoulder to tuck him close to his side.

“Of course, you remind me of him. It’s all in the cheekbones and jaw.”

Charles felt his face flush slightly at the compliment before he leaned closer, letting Maxwell cuddle up to his side. “Flattery.” He kissed at Maxwell’s cheek and Maxwell smiled up at him, looking more relaxed than he had been in over a month. 

“Look at all that space!” Hunnicutt called as he stared at the screen. 

“There’s Ward Bond, and he has Margert’s whip!” Pierce shouted and hooted. 

“Shut up!” Potter scowled. “Just watch the movie!”

Charles cuddled Maxwell close, and when popcorn was passed around, Charles smiled and scooped a large amount into a kidney dish, holding it to Maxwell, who grinned and delicately plucked up a piece in his white evening gloves. “Wait, let me.” Charles plucked a piece and fed it to Maxwell from his fingers, the two of them wrapped in Charles’ thick whale skin coat, the water leaking through the mess tent’s ceiling sliding easily off their shoulders. 

They sat together, smiling and watching the film, Charles feeding Maxwell pieces of popcorn as they watched the melodrama of the town of Tombstone unfold. Charles couldn’t help but smile at the feeling of Max in his arms, the younger man’s warm hip tucked in Charles’ palm. He had lost even more weight lately, and Charles was worried, but perhaps that was the mirrored feelings that Maxwell was feeling over him. They had both been so worried, so sick in their own ways, and now… Now Charles was sure that things would get better. _Be_ better.

It took every ounce of self control that Charles had not to jump when he felt those clever, light-touched fingers sliding into the crease between his thigh and groin, giving a slow squeeze to the flesh of his thigh.

Then the movie cut out and everyone groaned, those fingers sliding away as popcorn was thrown over at where Straminsky was manning the film projector.

“This film is full of splices, it’s not my fault!” Straminsky shouted as half the tent stood to leave.

“Now old on, don’t leave! You’re gonna miss a swell movie!” Potter stood and gestured for everyone to sit down and wait. “Tell you what, we’ll fill in the time. Let’s all sing! A community sing! We’ll have the film fixed in a jiffy, come on, it’s fun!”

Everyone groaned, but Potter seemed to take that in his stride. 

“I’ll go get the piano from the officer’s club!” Father Mulcahy stood, grinning brightly. 

“We’ll help, Padre,” Zale and Rizzo stood, the two men from opposite ends of the States followed Mulcahy out of the tent, and Maxwell smirked into Charles’ sleeve.

“They’re probably only going so they can sneak some booze over here too.” Charles chuckled as he reached into his coat pocket and produced a silver flask into Maxwell’s palm. “Is this…?”

“Napoleon Brandy. I bribed O’Reilly silly to get it, and as tragic as it is to drink from a flask, I felt that glasses might make the others attempt to appropriate it.”

Maxwell unscrewed the flask and took a slow drink as everyone began to sing the _Tennessee Waltz_ , Maxwell sighing happily at the warm sweetness of the brandy, smiling at the off-key singing from the group. “That warms you to your bones.” He sighed. 

“Absolutely.” Charles kissed Maxwell’s cheek softly, whispering into his skin, “Almost as much as you warm me.”

The younger man flushed and looked up at Charles as the man began to sing as well.

_“…When an old friend I happened to see. Introduced him to my true love, and while they were dancing… My friend stole my sweetheart from me! I remember the night...”_

The projector turned on just as Mulcahy, Rizzo, and Zale pushed the piano in through the mess tent door, the three men navigating it into a corner. Charles couldn’t help but smirk at the tell-tale outlines of booze in the pockets of the two Sergeants. 

The film played on, and Charles could almost tolerate the Western. It was a classic plot setup, the characters were perfect archetypes, and without the distraction of a musical score, the film was given an intensity that drew the attention and held it captive. 

Charles would have realized that and more about the film if he hadn’t become distracted by Maxwell’s hand slowly sliding up and down his inner thigh, teasing at Charles’ inseam with clever fingers that could pick a lock and hotwire a vehicle within two minutes. After a few long moments Charles decided to fight fire with fire, slipping his own fingers underneath the edge of Maxwell’s tight skirt, fingering at the lace garters of Maxwell’s stockings, teasing the young man as he squirmed and cuddled closer.

When the projector sputtered out again, everyone complained, turning to face Straminsky again. “It blew the bulb, it’s not my fault! Who do I look like, Thomas Edison?”

“Come on, Edison, get the bulb fixed!”

“I'll fix it. I'll fix it.” Straminsky began to rummage around in the supply crate for the movie night things. “Got a good bulb here someplace.

“Hit it, Father.” Potter called, and suddenly Mulcahy began to play the piano. 

Mulcahy began to sing and everyone recognized the song quickly, grinning and laughing as the father sang, “A chaplain in the army has a collar on his neck! If you don't listen to him you'll all wind up in heck!” He waved for everyone to join in the chorus. “Oh I don't want no more of army life! Gee, Mom, I wanna go home!”

Pierce and Hunnicutt stood up and began to sing, their arms thrown about one another. “Oh the surgeons in the army, they say we're mighty bright! We work on soldiers through the day, and nurses through the night!”

“I don't want no more of army life! Gee, Mom, I wanna go home!”

Potter stood in turn, laughing through his quickly thought up verse of the song. “Friendships in the army they say are mighty rare! So I spend all my free time carousing with my mare!”

“I don't want no more of army life! Gee, Mom, I wanna go home!”

O’Reilly stood, giggling around the chorus and began his own verse. “The corporals in the army you say we're really green! But if it weren't for us guys you'd be in the latrine!”

“I don't want no more of army life! Gee, Mom, I wanna go home!”

Maxwell stood, grinning broadly as he turned to the tent and sang. “Oh some guys like the army I think that it's a mess! If it's so damn terrific how come I wear a dress?”

“I don't want no more of army life! Gee, Mom, I wanna go home!”

“I've got it!” Straminsky called from where he manned the projector and everyone grinned and cheered as the film came flickering back to life, showing Wyatt Earp on screen once more. 

Except with no sound. 

“Igor, there’s no sound!”

“Don’t blame Igor, it’s an army projector!”

“It’s supposed to break down every five minutes.”

Straminsky groaned under the pressure and frustration. “It's no use. I can't get the sound. Lights.”

Everyone groaned and sighed and Charles looked at Maxwell before leading his husband in front of the group. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Charles announced, the brandy making his accent more drawling as he gave Maxwell a twirl. “Might we capture and entertain our audience with a performance of that beloved classic of “You’re The Cream in My Coffee?””

There was a brief shower of applause as the thunder rumbled outside and Maxwell laughed as Charles gripped him by his waist and perched him easily atop the upright piano. It was one of the few songs that Charles had memorized, mostly because of how simple it was without lyrics, repetitive and easily forgiveable while Maxwell sang. 

_“You’re the cream in my coffee! You’re the salt in my stew! You will always be my necessity, I’d be lost without you!”_ Maxwell grinned and looked down at Charles as he sang, the brightness of his gaze reminding Charles of why they had come together, why they worked so hard for a relationship. He was sure that his own adoring gaze was reminding Maxwell of the same. _“You’re the starch in my collar, you’re the lace in my shoe! You will always be my necessity, I’d be lost without you.”_

Charles continued to play, grinning as Maxwell laid down along the top of the piano so that his gaze was level with Charles’ own, their audience whistling and cheering as Maxwell kept singing. _”Most men tell love tales, and each phrase dovetails, you’ve heard each known way: this way is my own way!”_ Charles leaned up and stole a kiss from Maxwell, barely a breath, and Maxwell sang with a laugh in his voice as he continued. _”You’re the sail of my loveboat, you’re the captain and crew! You will always be my necessity! Like a restaurant with a recipe, I’d be lost without you!”_

The projector flickered and the sound cut back on, and everyone’s cheers were that much louder as the lights were turned off and Charles removed Maxwell from the top of the piano, the two of them slipping out of the tent together.

It was still raining, but Charles draped his coat over both of their shoulders, protecting Maxwell’s dress and his tuxedo as they walked across the muddy compound. When they were inside their tent, Maxwell turned and immediately kissed Charles, drawing the man down before he could even shrug out of the coat draped over his shoulders. 

Charles didn’t stop himself, not now, not when Maxwell was so close after so long apart. He clung to Maxwell’s silken dress, pawing at the slim line of his waist, down to narrow hips, drawing Maxwell close. 

“Darling,” Charles groaned into Maxwell’s neck, biting at the younger man’s neck. “Please stop this torture, please. I can handle physical blows, I can handle yelling, and screaming, but please not this coldness.”

Maxwell looked up at Charles and grabbed at the man’s lapels with one hand, dragging him down to share a burning, passionate kiss. Calloused, strong fingers slid up into Charles’ hair, tilting the man’s head down with the other. “You lie to me one more time, Winchester, and that’s it. Rules of baseball apply, three strikes and you’re out.”

“Three strikes.” Charles nodded, kissing Maxwell deeply, drawing him closer as his fingers gripped and tugged until he managed to find the zipper to Maxwell’s dress. “I promise, I’ll be better for you.”

“You better.” Maxwell bit at Charles’ lower lip, sucking sharply as he let Charles lower him towards their bed, kicking off his heels so he could wrap his legs around Charles’ waist. Charles groaned as Maxwell pulled Charles’ tuxedo open, nearly ripping buttons off of the man’s waistcoat, letting Charles shrug out of his suspenders before Maxwell started in on shirt buttons and bowtie. 

“Hey, we got wounded!” An unfamiliar voice called from the compound and the two ripped apart, groaning before they sprung into action, Maxwell throwing his dress aside and changing into something simpler and that he wouldn’t regret getting blood on, all within the space of moments. Charles couldn’t have the same luxury, so his tuxedo shirt and slacks would be a necessary sacrifice. He pulled on his combat boots and then opened the door, the two of them racing across the compound to start triage and moving patients along with the others, who had abandoned their film in a flood.

Standing in the scrub room together, Maxwell smiled as he heard Charles humming the tune they had sung earlier, and Maxwell began to sing alongside him. _“You’re the sail to my loveboat,”_ He smiled at Charles. _“You’re the captain and crew. You will always be my necessity, I’d be lost without you.”_


	46. Dear Sigmund

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Major Freedman talk over a game of Double Cranko.

“So what are the rules?” Freedman sighed as he sat in the Klinger-Winchester tent. Maxwell was out on shift, and Freedman had quickly discovered that the Swamp was no safe haven when everyone was trying to unload their troubles onto him. 

“According to Hawkeye this is the official rulebook for… Double Cranko… Spelled D-U-B-B-L.” Charles held up the hand written book that was titled “rool buk” and then tossed it aside. “And according to this there are no rules and whoever is in possession of the deck of cards wins, so let’s split the deck and we will see how it goes?”

Freedman gave a laugh and shuffled the deck, dealing it into two equal piles of twenty-one cards. “What’s brought this sudden desire to have me as company, Winchester?”

“Merely the fact that you seem to have spent two full weeks here in our… Khaki Paradise and decided not to leave. Everyone is concerned, Major Freedman.”

“Well, call me Sidney, Charles, and maybe we can get somewhere.”

Charles looked at the board that they had set up with both checkers and chess pieces, the checkers replacing the pawns and beside the set up board Charles had poured the both of them glasses of wine. “Fine, Sidney.”

“And just to make it interesting, why don’t we take turns asking prying questions on behalf of our friends?”

Charles stared at Freedman before he sighed and let his lips curl into a close-lipped smile. “Okay, deal.”

“Whites move first.” Sidney moved his knight forward over his line of checkers. “So, Charles, who put you up to this?”

“No one. Potter mentioned that the others were driving you a bit further up the wall than usual.”

“Interesting.” Freedman said, leaning back. “I guess it makes sense. You usually make it a point to avoid me when I come over, the others seem to flock to a sympathetic ear.”

“I can hear the question you’re trying not to ask, that loophole won’t work.” Charles looked down at the board and moved a checker. “So, Sidney, what do you get out of the 4077th Ritz?”

“I treat it like a bit of a spa. You guys know how to handle difficult times. Insanity in the face of trauma.” Freedman shrugged and smiled at Charles. “It’s a relief being here, honestly, helps me get away from it all.” He shuffled through his cards and slapped down a run of spades. “King me.” Charles did so, placing a pawn atop one of the checkers, and Freedman looked at him. “So what about you, Charles? How are you handling the 4077th?”

“As well as anyone can handle being banished to a far corner of the far east that can best be described as hell.” Charles looked at his own hand and then moved his bishop to slip between his checkers, cornering Freedman’s kinged checker. “Be honest, Sidney, what brought you here to recover? It must have been bad.”

The other Major sighed and leaned back, staring at their board game. “Well... winter's the busy season for shrinks here. The days get shorter. The nights get colder. I was getting 15 casesa week of total crack-ups.”

Charles sighed and downed the last of his wine before he moved to his footlocker. Maxwell had turned it into a veritable liquor cabinet, filled with any good liquor that could be bartered for, and some cheap booze that soothed a homesick ache in the younger man’s belly. “Here, we’ll need something better for this.” Charles poured a glass of Napoleon Brandy for the other man and sat down to pour himself. 

“Thank you, Charles,” Freedman sighed. “Business was too good. I was losing people.”

“Sidney,” Charles paused, trying to find the words. “We all lose patients.”

Freedman nodded, rubbing his eyes before he swallowed down to mouthfuls of his glass. “Actually, the straw that broke my back was this one kid who heard voices telling him to kill himself. I spent a lot of time with him.” The psychiatrist rolled his glass between his palms. “One day he was very calm, relaxed.” He looked up at Charles. “Sometimes that's a signal they've made a decision.”

Charles nodded, as if he understood when they both knew that he didn’t. 

“Only somehow... I missed it.” Freedman’s voice cracked faintly before he sighed. “And that night, after I went to sleep... that sweet, innocent, troubled kid...” He took a drink from his glass. “He listened to the voices.”

“That must have been difficult.” Charles agreed softly. 

Freedman nodded and sighed. “After that, I started sleeping late. I wasn't doing my work… This place has always been a restorative, so I thought why not?”

Charles nodded and stared at the other man, who placed his empty glass aside. Freedman had a perfect psychiatrist’s face, it gave nothing away, even if his poker face was worse. “So, what about you, Charles? You’ve been avoiding me and everyone’s been trying to push you towards me.”

They remained quiet for a few moments before Charles worked his jaw and spoke. “Maxwell and I have had some difficulties. All of my own making, I must admit.” Charles sighed. “We’ve been working through them, but I lost his trust, and I suffer the consequences.”

“What did you do, Major?”

Charles chuckled and rubbed at his eyes. “I was a hypocrite and a fool last year and became reliant on amphetamines to make it through my work days.” He looked at Freedman. “I got clean, and that lasted for about six months. Then I spent nearly a year reacquainting myself with my addiction, lying to the love of my life, trying to keep myself going through the motions of my life and work out of sheer will. And then I nearly killed a patient and it all came crashing down.”

Freedman looked at him and shook his head. “You’re only human, Charles. Why didn’t you get help before? Surely Klinger would have been in your corner.”

“Why embarrass him like that? Why throw myself into the fire?” Charles sighed and shook his head. “Maxwell is… He’s so much younger than me, Sidney.” Charles finally admitted, quiet and aching. “How could I possibly keep up with him? With this war?”

“Colonel Potter does it pretty well?”

“He’s a career man, he always has been, this is old hat to him. I still struggle through O.R. sessions longer than ten hours.” Charles looked at Freedman and shrugged. “How could I have placed that on his shoulders? That I was… Hopelessly entangled in an addiction that I felt I needed to be a good doctor, to make it through those sessions?”

“Because he’s your husband,” Freedman shrugged. “Everyone here knows that. They all know how much Maxwell adores you, practically worships you.”

“I’m surprised they talk about that,” Charles laughed as he poured another drink for the two of them. “And not the fact that I’m his slave.” 

“I think they see the rank, the occupation, and choose to believe you’re the one with all the power.” Freedman smiled slightly as he stared at Charles. “A common misconception for homosexual men, I think.”

Charles sighed as he looked down at their board, picking up his Queen as he fiddled it between his fingers. “Which is probably the reason they wanted you to talk to me. About hurting such a sweet young man?”

“Maybe,” That perfect couch-side manner grated on Charles, but he looked at the other Major. “Everyone worries about Klinger. He’s young, he’s Radar’s friend, he’s a scared poor kid from Toledo.”

Charles nodded and sighed before he reached up into the breast pocket of his uniform. “I know.” He whispered as he held the thin bank book out to the psychiatrist. “This is… It’s small, but something I could do for Max. He doesn’t know, so please keep it secret.”

“Doctor-Patient confidentiality still works when I’m talking to another Doctor.” Major Freedman flicked open the book and read through it, frowning before he raised his brow at the other man. “This is a lot of money, Major.”

“It’s the same amount that Maxwell is paid every month. I have Honoria move the money into an account back in Boston for Maxwell.” Charles said simply as he twiddled his thumbs. “If things were to… If Maxwell were to realize that he’s better off without me, or decides that he’d prefer a… Younger sleeker model.” Charles gave a wry smile. “He’d have enough to start over.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who likes to share his toys, Major.” Freedman said as he stared at Charles. “Why don’t you tell him about this?”

“He’d feel obligated to stay, regardless of his own feelings. He sees money as a leash, a means to control people. And he’s not wrong.” Charles sighed and leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. “I’ve never found anything that I couldn’t buy. It was just a matter of price.”

“And then you found Klinger.”

Charles laughed and nodded, smiling fondly at the ceiling covered in filmy silk scarves. “I had never seen anyone motivated more by generosity, love, and a desire for freedom than Maxwell Q. Klinger.”

The psychiatrist stared at Charles. “Do you worry about clipping his wings?”

“I worry about caging him.” Charles sighed. “I worry that he’d stay with me merely because he thinks that money spent on him is a bribe, one more link in the chain. So my planning for his future… If he remains with me or if he leaves me… He’d see it as binding as any prison bars.”

“You don’t give him enough credit.” Major Freedman smiled and shook his head. “Maybe you should tell him about these fears. It might help mend your relationship.”

Charles stared down at his glass of brandy and then at the thin, tired face of the man across from him. He thought of a room filled with lightening, of needles glistening with yellow fluid inside them that made him retch and heave, thought of the sweet taste of alcohol and how he made it through medical school on the grace of his father’s gifts of alcohol and money to buy more. “There’s some things I don’t think I could ever tell him, it would be too much of a burden.” He leaned forward and slapped down five cards from his hand. “And that is a straight flush. Your move, Sidney.”


	47. Major Topper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierce and Hunnicutt hit their mark when Charles makes a brag that they don't believe.

“Hey, Beej, did I ever tell you about Lenore Clement, voted Miss New England of 1949?” Charles sighed as he listened to Hunnicutt and Pierce continue their usual attempt at banter. This week it had been an attempt to one up one another with real life scenarios blown to outlandish proportions. Charles had spent the last three days playfully ribbing at the two other surgeons, telling them about truthful scenarios from his own admittedly charmed life.

Hunnicutt looked over at Pierce from where they were sitting in the Officer’s Club, drinking beer while Charles waited patiently for Maxwell’s shift tending bar to finish up. “No. Did you know her?”

“Are you kidding?” Pierce grinned as he looked at Hunnicutt, the two of them wearing their ridiculous hats and bath robes as they sat together. “I knew her when she was Miss Maine of'48, even Miss Crabapple Cove of'47.”

“Really?” Hunnicutt grinned, his own outlandish lie bubbling in his throat.

Pierce nodded, smugly, “I painted her swimsuit on her.”

“Oh, funny you should mention swimsuits.” Hunnicutt leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. “Once in Hollywood, I dated Esther Williams's stand-in.” 

Pierce gasped, ready to concede defeat to Hunnicutt for this lie. “Really?”

“I could kiss her for an hour at a time, she could hold her breath so long.” Charles laughed at that and Hunnicutt grinned smugly at him, taking the man’s laughter as a victory. 

Pierce grinned even more widely, jostling Hunnicutt’s shoulder. “Tell me, was she, uh, beautiful?”

Hunnicutt nodded, holding up his hands. “Gorgeous! From her head to her gills.”

Charles decided that this was it, so he approached the bar, leaning on it to order another cognac from Maxwell, who smiled as he poured the drink before Charles even opened his mouth. “Ever heard of Audrey Hepburn?” He asked the other two surgeons, smiling.

Pierce sneered at him, “Sure. Big brown eyes. Beautiful smile. Lot of talent. I understand she can act too.”

“And you dated her stand-in, right?” Hunnicutt added, smirking at Charles.

Charles scoffed, “'Course not. I dated her once upon a time.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Trust him, Captains, he dated her.” Maxwell grinned from where he was wiping down the counter, placing a bowl of popcorn in front of the cluster of surgeons.

Pierce slapped his hand on the bar, “That's it! We're callin' you on this one, Charles.”

“Look, Charles, we've had enough of your lies. Your handyman? Okay. The hypnotist? Maybe.” Hunnicutt rolled his eyes. “But Audrey Hepburn? “It's just a laugh!”

Pierce nodded his agreement as he gave a general gesture to Charles’… _Everything_. “Never! I've seen her, and not only couldn't you date her, she wouldn't let you into a theater where one of her movies was playing.”

Charles hummed as he sipped at his cognac, trying not to take offense, to not let Pierce’s careless barb find it’s target. “Actually, I've never seen any of her films. I watched her in the ballet, and had dinner with her after a performance.” He reached for his wallet and the two other surgeons groaned.

“Quasimodo would have a better chance of dating Audrey Hepburn than you!” Pierce shouted, glaring across Hunnicutt at the other man.

“Gentlemen...” Charles pulled the picture from where it was tucked behind Maxwell’s own picture, a charming pinup style image he had given of the young Corporal in a red tea dress. He held out the picture to Pierce, Hunnicutt ignoring it as he took another drink from his can of beer. “I... I hate to do this.”

Pierce scoffed, lifting the photo before his drunken gaze, “Oh, look at this.” Pierce froze, stared at the photo, then at Charles. “You...”

“What is it? Let me see.” Hunnicutt reached out, pawing at the photo.

“Nothing, nothing.” Pierce held the photo to his chest. “It's just a picture of Audrey Hepburn having dinner with… I can't say it... Charles.”

“It's a fake!” Hunnicutt shouted, snatching the photo. “It's not a fake!”

“A charming little girl.” Charles said as he raised a brow at the other men. “Lovely old world manners. Appetite of a bird.” Charles stood, holding his arm out to Maxwell. “Are you done, darling?”

“Yes, Major baby.” Maxwell grinned. “2100 exactly.”

“I could hardly be late to escort you back home,” Charles guided Max from behind the counter, the younger man smoothing out his powder blue skirt as he leaned into Charles’ arm. “When will you two cretins realize that your feeble imaginations cannot keep up with my real life?” He asked as he passed the two Captains, who were still staring in shock at the photograph between them.

The walk across the compound was silent and companionable, and when they finally entered their tent, Charles smiled as Maxwell gave him a soft, slow kiss. “Can you do my nails tonight, Major?” Maxwell asked, nuzzling his nose against the tip of Charles’ own, those soft brown eyes looking up at the other man with a pleading gaze.

“Of course. They’ll have ample time to dry before the midnight movie tonight.” Charles smiled as he looked at Maxwell, the younger man brightening as he looked up at him. Charles hesitated before he sat down and guided Maxwell’s foot into his lap, Maxwell passing him the bright pink that he wanted painted on. “Maxwell, might I ask you something? Something embarrassing?”

“I promise not to tell the Captains,” Maxwell smiled as he looked at Charles. “What is it, baby?”

“Why don’t you… Give me a makeover.”

Maxwell looked curiously at the other man. “I don’t think you’d look nearly as good as I do in glitter eyeshadow and lipstick.”

“No, no just… There must be something you’d want to change about me? My hair, maybe put me in a girdle?” Charles tried to sound joking, but he knew he missed his mark when Maxwell stared at him with a quietly sympathetic look. 

“Oh, Charles.” Maxwell smiled at the other man before he leaned in. “Finish up my toes, I have a couple of ideas.”

Charles felt his heart leap into his throat. He wasn’t prepared for how horrible the confirmation that there were things about himself that Maxwell might wish to change. It stung, and while his ego could take the stings, it was still difficult to ignore the fact that perhaps he didn’t measure up to what Maxwell wanted. He thought of Maxwell’s comment that he had never missed an Alan Mowbray film, and wondered quietly if Maxwell had settled for him. 

“You okay, Charles?” Maxwell asked gently, stroking over the man’s wrist. “You’ve been finished with my toes for a couple minutes now.”

Charles capped the nail polish, his hand rubbing over Maxwell’s ankle before he slid his palm up, over a muscular calf, cupping the back of Maxwell’s knee in order to draw him close and kiss the smooth skin. “Just lost in thought, darling.”

“Well, if you’re gonna go off to Wonderland without me, why don’t I set you up and get started on your makeover?” Maxwell smiled as he leaned close to kiss Charles, drawing the man close and gently coaxing him into deepening the kiss. “Come on, Charles, sit down, I’ll clean you up real nice.”

Charles obeyed, following Maxwell as if drawn, reeled in as surely as a fish caught on a hook. 

Maxwell smiled as Charles sat at the vanity, kissing the man’s eyelids. “Just relax, close your eyes.”

Charles took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he listened to the younger man move about the room, opening and closing his footlocker his heels thudding softly on the dirt floor as he moved about. “Just nothing too ostentatious,” Charles called as he smiled, nervousness making his limbs rigid. 

“Trust me, baby,” Maxwell whispered directly in Charles’ ear, making the man jump. “I gotcha.”

Charles shivered, biting his lip before he heard the snip of scissors near his ears. He stiffened at that, and felt Maxwell drape a swathe of fabric around his shoulders, holding it with a pair of bobby pins before he began to work on the man’s hair. Charles tried not to flinch as he sat, listening to the clip of the scissors, feeling Maxwell combing his fingers through the fine blonde curls. When the sound of the scissors stopped Charles felt his breath shudder out of his lungs, as if he had held the breath for hours instead of a few paltry minutes. 

Next he felt fingers gently take his own hands, and Maxwell’s lips smiled against his fingers, his knuckles. “Relax, big fella.” Maxwell purred softly. “Come on, baby, relax, you know I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“I know.” Charles gave a small laugh. “I know, I just… I’m nervous.”

“Don’t be.” Maxwell kissed Charles’ lips softly, the man chasing Maxwell’s smiling mouth briefly before he relaxed back into the chair. 

Charles jumped as he felt the slick feeling of Maxwell’s soothing lotion, the chilly, slick cream turning warm as Maxwell worked it into his fingers, into Charles’ cracked and dried knuckles and fingers. Charles so very rarely asked for this treatment, knowing that Maxwell didn’t have much of the cream, and it felt like such a trespass, asking so much of him, and then asking for a little bit more. His shaving kit was acquired from the nightstand and Charles listened to the delicate clink of the handle of his badger fur shaving brush against the edge of his ceramic mug. 

The lather was spread evenly across his face, and Charles shivered as his straight razor clicked open. When Maxwell dragged the razor over his jaw, Charles let out a soft breath, relaxing and tilting his head into the touch. It was a slow process, and Charles always loved when Maxwell shaved him, the way the man would gently give kisses to the damp, freshly shaved skin. Strong, calloused fingers cupped his jaw, tilting his head this way and that in order to get every inch of his face and Charles couldn’t help the shivering little breath that escaped him. 

“Relax, baby,” Maxwell ordered softly, placing the mug and razor aside on the vanity, before a new sound started up, sounds of Maxwell’s manicure kit being opened and rummaged through. Charles wondered what else Maxwell might want to change, that this couldn’t possibly be it. His fingernails were carefully filed, his cuticles cared for, and by the time Charles heard the tap of the file placed down, he desperately wanted to open his eyes, only to jump when Maxwell gently kissed his lips, those calloused fingers cupping his cheeks gently.

“That’s it.” Maxwell said with a smile. “Nothing else.”

Charles opened his eyes, blinking as he stared at the vanity mirror, Maxwell’s arms wrapped loosely around Charles’ shoulders as he rested his chin atop Charles’ head. His hair had been trimmed, the blond curls closer to his head, his face shaven, his nails carefully trimmed and his hands lotioned. Maxwell pulled back and smiled as he rummaged through the rack filled with the Klinger Collection. When he turned back he held a carefully tailored dark blue waistcoat, a brand new shirt in purple silk, and dark blue trousers to go with it all.

“I ordered some brown wingtip shoes for you too, was gonna give that to you on our anniversary.” Maxwell smiled as he leaned close and kissed Charles. “I think tonight is perfect for you and I to wear our…” Maxwell pulled out a dress, made of the same silk as Charles’ own shirt, with long swathes of navy fringe along the hem, collar, and sleeves. “Date.”

Charles couldn’t resist the smile curling across his lips, or the tears filling his eyes as he grabbed hold of Maxwell, drawing him close to kiss his lips, cupping his face. 

“Oh, Major baby, what’s wrong?” Maxwell whispered between soft kisses, holding the man close. “What’s wrong?”

“Just…” Charles sobbed. “No one has ever wanted me as I am.”

Maxwell pulled Charles closer and kissed him. “Well I do, I want the best version of you, but I only want you.”

Charles pulled back to stare into dark eyes, his forehead pressed to Maxwell’s, their noses brushing together. “Am I the best version of myself yet?”

Soft lips pressed to Charles’ own in a slow kiss before he pulled back. “I think you want to be for me.” Those dark fingers framed Charles’ face, his thumbs stroking over the man’s jaw and neck. “And as long as you think that… You will be.”


	48. Blood and Guts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles never wanted to be in Korea, he considers that he might not be the only one there that doesn't belong.

“Hello.” Charles sighed at the sight of the Marine seated on the examination table. He was a big man, and his mouth was held open by a pool ball trapped behind his teeth. He seemed to be fine, if the heavy breathing through his nose was any indication. “I’m Dr. Winchester. And your name is…?”

The man let out a muffled grunt, staring up at Charles as the doctor loomed over the table, his patience wearing dangerously thin. 

Charles gave a smug curl of his lips, staring down at the Marine who was trying to grunt around the pool ball, his jaw working weakly as if he was trying to chew the ball like an enormous jawbreaker sweet. “Would that be with one "M" or two?” More grunting. “Of course. Three.” Charles looked at the chart in front of him, wondering how he would record this without indicating the level of contempt he held for this man. “Now, then. What seems to be the problem?” A frustrated groan and the man looked up at him with the most stupid, pleading eyes Charles had ever seen. “Now, my dear lad, don't be shy. The doctor is your friend.” 

The man squashed his own cheeks with his palms, making his lips pucker around the pool ball wedged in his mouth.

“Oh. You seem to be a bit congested. Feel a little frog in your throat?” Charles gave a puzzled look to the man, who seemed to believe that Charles was truly confused by the predicament. “Could you cough for the doctor, please?”

“Mmmmm!” The man groaned and shook his head.

“My dear man,” Charles sighed. “How can I discover what's wrong with you if you will not cooperate?” He tapped his metal thermometer tube against his finger, glaring at the man across from him. “Oh, I see. You want me to take your temperature. I can do that.” He stepped around the table in front of the Marine and let out an exaggerated gasp. “Gadzooks!” He said loudly enough that the conversation from post-op paused for a minute. “Do you realize you have something in your mouth?”

The door slid open and Charles leaned his hand against the table as he ignored the scent of Maxwell’s perfume pouring into the room as the man checked in. Charles spoke to the Marine, who he was now convinced was a Marine only because he was too stupid for anything else. “What on earth could that be?” He asked, as if speaking to a child. “Oh, lookie. A little 6 painted on it. Could that be how old you are?” He gave the man a wide-eyed, earnest look before he gasped and said. “Oh! Now I see. You may not realize this, but you have a pool ball lodged in your mouth.”

Maxwell’s heels clicked on the wooden floor and Charles heard him close the door. He could _feel_ the younger man’s amused smile as he kept speaking to the Marine. “No sweat.” Charles put his thermometer case away and shoved the man over. “There is an alternative. I'll just take your temperature the other way.”

The Marine stood, scrambling to hide behind Maxwell, who rolled his eyes at the way Charles turned and followed the cowering soldier, the two of them using Maxwell as a shield between one another, circling around him like a Looney Tunes cartoon. “Well, don't get mad at me, chum.” Charles said as he tried to grab the Marine around Maxwell’s side. “I mean, if you didn't have that silly pool ball in there, I could stick the thermometer in your mouth.” He gasped, tapping a finger on his chin, making the Marine peer around Maxwell cautiously. 

“Wait a minute!” Maxwell grinned, holding up his hands. “I got a crazy idea.” Charles stopped and smirked at Maxwell, who turned to the Marine, gripping the man’s shoulders. “What if he _removes_ the ball?”

The Marine cautiously crept out from around Maxwell, nodding quickly at the prospect of getting what he came for. “Now, how would I do that? Let's see. What to do?” Charles tapped his finger on his chin, hearing the door open again. “I know! I shall pull all your teeth.”

“Winchester, what are you doing?” Potter’s voice called and the Marine let out a muffled scream, racing to Potter, kneeling down on the floor and clutching his hands pleadingly to the man. “Winchester, get a muscle relaxant for this man, you’re embarrassing me in front of our guest.” Charles registered the older, ginger-haired man that was watching the exchange in amusement, while Maxwell guided the Marine back to the examination table.

Charles sighed and rolled his eyes before he grabbed a hypodermic and the opened the medicine cabinet in order to get a bottle of muscle relaxant. “Be forewarned, Private Mosconi.” He said as he drew the relaxant and turned to the Marine. “The next time we meet, I plan to perform major surgery, whether you need it or not.”

* * *

“Six pints of blood donated by some of my loyal readers back home. I thought it'd make a good story, you know, follow each bottle from John Q. Public to G.I. Joe.!” Clay Kibbee said with a grin. 

“Who'd have thought I'd have a chance to meet a legend like Clayton Kibbee in a place like this?” Hunnicutt asked with a grin.

“It seems only apropos.” Charles said as he smiled as well, looking at the journalist as the man smiled at the group in the post op. “After all the man is the consummate war correspondent, not to mention the ultimate sportsman, confidant of kings-”

“Please, Doctor, you’re making me blush,” Kibbee grinned at Charles. 

Maxwell laughed, elbowing Charles. “But not as much as that Marine earlier.”

Charles sighed and rolled his eyes, but fondly placed a hand on Maxwell’s shoulder. “You now know the answer to the question, what is the lowest form of Marine life.” Charles held out his free hand to the journalist. “Clay, Charles Emerson Winchester III. I've been reading your work since I was yay high.” He gestured to the height of his younger self. 

“Well, that makes one of us very old, Charles... or can I call you Chuck?” Kibbee grinned up at the taller man and Charles felt his face twitch.

“Uh, you can… But, gee, I wish you wouldn't.” 

Maxwell giggled, redirecting the conversation. “How long are you gonna be around, Clay?”

Kibbee stuck his hands in his pockets and grinned, looking at the group. “Oh, just long enough to finish my job. While you're patchin' up these soldiers, I'm gonna write about it.”

* * *

“I guess I'm not much of a motorcycle rider, huh, Doc?” McKegney asked as Charles plastered his arm, hearing Kibbee’s heavy boot steps approaching. 

“Your riding is perfectly fine, soldier.” Charles said as he finished, wiping off his hands. “However, you _must_ work on your falling down.” 

Kibbee sat down next to the two, grinning broadly as he looked at Charles. “What's the prognosis?”

“Oh, Corporal McKegney will be quite alright.” Charles smiled as he stepped back, tucking his fingers into the rag. “Corporal McKegney, as winner of our falling off a motorcycle contest, you have earned a free interview with Clayton Kibbee.”

“How are ya, son?” Kibbee asked as he shook the young man’s hand.

“ _The_ Clayton Kibbee?” McKegney grinned as he stared at his hero, eyes wide. “Shoot. I've read your stuff.” His expression turned to confusion. “Well, how come you wanna talk to me?”

“Well, the blood you just got was donated by my readers back home.” Kibbee grinned and leaned close, as if he could hang on the young man’s words for support alone. “I want them to know what a fine young man you are.”

“Who, me?” McKegney flushed and looked down at his broken arm.

“Bet your buttons!” Kibbee jostled the boy’s knee and Charles couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for the journalist as he waited for the story. “Hey, you've just received a wound in the service of your country. That's news. I wanna hear all about it! Now what kind of a mission were you on?”

“Well, my C. O. wanted some papers sent up to H. Q. I thought it would be fun to take my bike for a spin, so I volunteered.” McKegney paused, wondering if he should share more details.

“And you went into a dangerous area?” Kibbee goaded, staring at the young soldier.

“Heh, are you kiddin'? If that area hadn't been secured, I wouldn't have volunteered!”

Kibbee frowned, confused, and Charles felt sorry for both men, McKegney for his broken arm, and Kibbee for his soon-to-be dashed hopes. “Well, how did you get injured? A sniper, infiltrator?”

“No. I hit a rock, and the bike came down with me under it.”

“Oh.” Kibbee visibly deflated at that before he waved it off. “Don't worry. I'll do somethin' with it. What's your full name?”

“Thomas Anthony McKegney.” The Corporal smiled at Kibbee. “And will you mention I'm from Livingston, Texas?”

“Yeah. Sure. You betcha.” Kibbee made his notes and grinned widely, giving the soldier a salute. “Well, thank you, Thomas. Good luck to ya. Hang in there, soldier. Get some rest, huh?”

Charles led McKegney into post-op, Kibbee following him along, watching the young man being tucked into his bed before he followed Charles out of post-op entirely into the compound.

“Is that what it’s like over here?” Kibbee asked, looking up at Charles with a disappointed gaze. 

“Right now, yes. We don’t have a push on, and peace talks are starting up, so everyone wants to, ah, play nice.” Charles explained as they walked through the compound. “Honestly, this is the most civilian injury I’ve treated since one of the patients last year had appendicitis.”

“Bit of a shame, really,” Kibbee sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Well, hopefully I’ll get some real action soon!”

“Privates with pool balls in their mouths and Corporals with careless driving habits don’t make for exciting war-time stories.” Charles agreed. “But I would not trade it for anything.”

* * *

Charles walked into the clerk’s office, looking for O’Reilly or Maxwell to ask after the mail that had yet to come, only to find the office empty, except for the hunched form of Kibbee, the man speaking to the press train about his article. _"So there he was trapped behind enemy lines with information that could save the lives of a company full of buddies he had been laughing with the night before. Escape was impossible, but 'impossible' is a word that has lost its meaning for Thomas Anthony McKegney, because suddenly in the road ahead there was a motorcycle, a twowheeled, 30horsepower ticket to freedom. McKegney leapt aboard and took off like a Sabre jet. Tommy dodged a rain of enemy bullets except for the one that found his rear tire, sending him into a skid that threw him almost a hundred feet."_

Charles frowned as he listened to the story, standing in the doorway from post-op. He remained silent and stared at Kibbee, feeling his heart sink at the realization of what he was hearing.

 _"The injured boy was taken to the 4077 MASH, where one Major Charles Emerson Winchester III put him back together, giving him a transfusion of your"_ underline "your"... _"blood. There's a pint of new American type 'O' pulsing through McKegney's veins today. He'll be back laughing with his buddies in a week and don't bet he won't volunteer for dangerous duty again. For that first pint of your blood, mission accomplished. From the front lines, Clayton Kibbee."_ You got that?” Kibbee grinned as he turned, waving at Charles. “Good. Wire it out tonight. And thanks.”

Charles was silent for a long moment before he said, “I didn't realize you wrote fiction.”

Kibbee rolled his eyes, standing with his hands in his pockets as he looked up at Charles. “Aw, come on. I just enliven the facts a bit.”

“You enliven through your teeth.” Charles sniped as he glared at the man. “I expected better from you.”

“What are you complainin' about? I thought you came off soundin' pretty good.” Kibbee looked up at Charles, squaring his shoulders in a challenging way.

“That's not the point.” Charles glared at the man. “You make this sound like some glorious escapade, something every American boy should aspire to.” Charles stepped closer to the man, gesturing to the post-op. “In case you have failed to noticed, this is ugly. It is not exciting.” He sneered. “Underline "not”.”

“Well, you got that wrong, son.” Kibbee snapped back, poking his finger into Charles’ chest. “Back home is not exciting. It's the war they want to read about. The romance, the heroics, the glory.” 

“That doesn't exist.” Charles snarled, glaring at the journalist. 

Kibbee laughed at that, and that merely made Charles even more furious, “That's why I'm here. I make it exist.”

“I don't believe you.” Charles shook his head, glaring at the journalist. It was worse that he had grown up reading Kibbee’s work, that he had adored the man’s articles and thought that they had captured something that he would never have. “Don't you feel any responsibility at all for what you write?” He asked softly, heartbroken as he stared at his childhood hero.

“Of course I do!” Kibbee straightened defensively, glaring at Charles. “Look. I came here to cover a war, and that's what I'm gonna do. If I'd wanted to do a story about some dumb kid tearing himself up in a motorcycle wreck, I'd have gone to New York and sat at a stoplight!”

“I have a real, fresh angle for you.” Charles glared at the man. “It's called "the truth." How come I never read about pain?” Charles gestured to post-op. “Just once I'd like to see you write about that, about the boys who don’t want any of that drama and romance that you talk about, that just want to live the lives they left behind. Yes Corporal McKegney made a stupid mistake, but instead of wrapping everything up in glory why don’t you talk about the tragedy that these boys barely old enough to vote are being sent here to die for their country? They don't belong here, none of us except for maybe a few of the brass belong here! And yet we're down here in the mud and blood and guts of everything, trying to stay alive while Generals get fatter and body counts get higher and this war drags on for longer.” Charles stepped away and scowled, glaring at Kibbee, who had the decency to quietly avoid his gaze. “What the hell is so glorious about that?”

* * *

Maxwell laid beside Charles, the man staring at the sleeping face of his love, thinking about glory, about romance, about tragedy. Maxwell’s dark lashes fluttered against his cheek and Charles thought, not for the first time, about how young he was. How sweet and gentle. He thought of stories of Toledo, how Maxwell had told him about pool halls filled with friends, about dice games behind the public schools, about one particular bakery that sold sweet hunks of wedding cake at the end of the day for three cents each. He thought of Maxwell in dresses, in work denims, going to work construction and then turning right around to tailor his cousins’ dresses. He thought of Maxwell in the kitchen helping his mother prepare meals, of Maxwell climbing the stairs to his bedroom and laying amidst rugs and scarves and piles of soft fabrics, both already made into clothing and some of it yet to be used, like a magpie in a nest. 

He had never belonged here, in the Army, in Korea any more than Charles did. 

“You’re thinking too loud, Major.” Maxwell sighed as he cuddled close to the man’s side. “What’s keeping you awake?”

“Just thinking about what you’d be doing, if there was no war. If you hadn’t been drafted.” Charles murmured softly. “You wouldn’t be here. But you also wouldn’t know to miss me.”

“I’d always miss you, Major baby.” Maxwell smiled sleepily, as he kissed his chest, right over his heart. “Even if I didn’t know your name, I’d know to miss you in my heart.”


	49. What's Up, Doc?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Maxwell are taken hostage by a desperate patient.

“O’Reilly,” Charles sighed as he sat in the post-op, reading over charts as the young clerk paced up and down the center aisle. Most of the patients were resting comfortably, and some of them were even ambulatory enough to move to other beds to share space with their buddies. Those that were conscious, however, seemed to be a bit wary of the pacing Corporal. “Why don’t you do rounds with me, hmm?”

O’Reilly turned, blinking at Charles wide eyed. “O-oh?”

“Here,” Charles walked to the medicine cabinet and removed a beaker filled with thermometers, pouring some sterilizing alcohol into the beaker before he handed it to O’Reilly. “Take this, give one to each patient, then wait for sixty seconds, check the temperature and record them in the chart.” That would at least keep the young man busy for a bit.

“O-okay,” O’Reilly carefully passed out the thermometers and Charles began to check on the other patients, making note of who would need to be sent home soon. 

“Do I get to live? Can I go home to Buffalo?” One private asked as Charles examined his shoulder wound.

“Well, there's no internal damage.” Charles said as he carefully replaced the bandage. “As for your going home, I'd say in about a week.” He taped down the bandage and leaned back. “And as for your living in Buffalo, I'd call that a contradiction in terms, you know?”

Charles stood and walked past Martinson, who glared at him with all the venom of a cobra waiting to strike. When Charles sat down beside him, looking over his chart, Martinson snarled and looked away. “Why don't you leave me alone? Let me go home.”

“Martinson,” Charles sighed. “I hate this place, this war, just as much as you do.” He placed the chart aside and turned to fully face Martinson. “But there really isn't anything we can do about it except cope with the situation as best we can.” Charles paused. “Well… That or rent a room in Leavenworth.”

“No.” The young man shook his head vehemently, clutching at his arm. “I have to get out of here.”

Charles sighed and looked at the young man, feeling sympathy sink into his chest. He had seen his fair share of battle fatigue, had seen enough of it to know the sure signs even without a psychiatric degree. “I can recommend you be sent to Tokyo for psychiatric observation.”

“Oh, no, I'm not letting those headshrinkers get ahold of me and put in my record that I'm nuts.” Martinson clutched his wounded arm tighter to his chest, standing up and glaring down at Charles. “This is to certify that Tom Martinson, Associate Professor of Art History, went bonkers in Korea?”

“Martinson, they're not there to brand you. They're there to help you.” Charles argued, even though he could taste the hypocrisy of his own words.

“Oh, don't you lie to me!” Martinson snarled, moving as if to attack Charles, only for the doctor to give him a cold look.

“Leiutenant,” He said, his voice frigid. “I would choose your next actions very carefully.”

Martinson hesitated, lowering his hand before he breathed deeply and clenched his fist. “Can I have my pack?”

Charles handed the bag tucked beneath the foot of the bed over to Martinson, turning back to his notes to offer some semblance of privacy. 

“Alright, Radar, Pierce and Houlihan say that you can go collect Fluffy now, she’s coming out of the anesthesia.” Maxwell’s voice called and his heels clicked on the floor, drawing Charles’ eyes to the man, who froze, his dark skin turning pale in an instant.

“Maxwell, is something wrong?” Charles asked, only to freeze as well when he heard a tell-tale click behind his back.

“Stand back. Stand back. I'll shoot this man if I have to.”

“Okay.” Maxwell raised his hands, stepping back as the rest of the unarmed wounded tried to scramble away. “Okay, let’s get out of here, we can talk to the C.O..” Maxwell gestured through the door connecting post-op to the main hallway. “Let’s go this way, okay? These wounded don’t need guns around them, they’ve already been hazardous to their health.”

“You take me to your C.O..” Martinson shoved the gun into the back of Charles’ neck, and the doctor stood, his own hands held up as he led the way to Potter’s office, Maxwell closing the doors behind him as they went. 

“Maxwell, please go alert Hunnicutt to take over for me in post-op,” Charles whispered, only for Martinson to turn the gun onto Maxwell. 

“Oh no, you’re not going out of my sight!” The man’s eyes were wild and fearful as they fixed on both men, who had their hands held up still. “Well, where is he? Where’s the C.O.?”

Maxwell looked around and gripped the P.A. microphone, not lifting it, merely pushing the button down to turn it on. “Uh, hello, Camp, this is Klinger calling, could Colonel Potter report to his offices, and could Captain Hunnicutt report to the post-op? We have a bit of a situation.”

“That’s enough, turn it off!” Martinson snapped and Maxwell released the P.A. microphone, lifting his hands in surrender again.

“Alright, alright, Klinger, what’s going-” Potter stopped in the clerk’s office, staring at the young Lieutenant holding two of his people at gunpoint. 

“This is Lieutenant Martinson.” Charles said as calmly as he could, even as his voice trembled ever so slightly. 

“What do you think you're doing, son?” Potter asked, his eyes trailing over the pulled and bleeding stitches in Martinson’s shoulder.

“Getting out of here, and I'll shoot these men if I don't get what I want!” Martinson shouted, and Charles’ arm immediately shot out to pull Maxwell behind him, carefully stepping between the young man and danger. He remembered a sniper round, the sound of impact, a gush of blood on a silver dress, and his heart began to race even more at the prospect of digging another bullet from Maxwell’s body.

“Let's just talk about this, nice and easy.” Potter said calmly, as if speaking to a horse to soothe it’s temper.

“I want a chopper, a transport to the States, food and clothing to get me back to Ohio.” Martinson snapped.

“Well, son, I need to use that phone right there to call in a chopper,” Potter’s tone remained even as he stared at the desperate patient, trying to get the man to move away from Charles and Maxwell without putting himself in danger as well. “Corporal Klinger can run the call in a pitch, but it’s well past dark right now, so he’ll be here at dawn.”

“No good! I want one now!” Martinson snapped, and Charles felt the gun jab into his chest before he closed his eyes, scrambling to grip Maxwell’s fingers tightly. 

“I'd get one for you if I could, but choppers can't fly at night. It's not like they have headlights. You're gonna have to wait till morning, Martinson.” Potter’s voice and words had a sense of finality to them, and Charles did not like the sound of Martinson’s breath getting faster with anger, anxiety.

“You better be telling the truth. Now get out of here, I’ll wait here with these two until you get me the chopper.”

“Okay.” Potter whispered. “Klinger, get the call going.”

* * *

When Martinson cornered Charles and Maxwell in the clerk’s office, it was nine hours to dawn. Now it was closer to four hours and Charles and Maxwell had moved to sit across from O’Reilly’s small cot. Martinson was exhausted, but determined, glaring at them as Charles sat in the desk chair, and Maxwell perched wearily on the desk. The door to the hallway had become barricaded with overturned file cabinets and Potter had then locked the front entrance to the office, as much for the safety of the others as for Charles and Maxwell’s. So long as no one else came in, they were likely to remain unharmed at least until dawn.

Charles’ eyes opened from where he had dozed off at the sound of Maxwell’s voice. 

“Take me instead of him.” That voice whispered, and Martinson grunted. “I got your escape plan.”

“I got my own plan,” Martinson snapped back wearily. “A chopper to Seoul, a plane back to Ohio.”

“I'm from Toledo, I know people there.” Maxwell wheedled. “I could make it easy for you. The Major here would be lost in Ohio.”

Charles opened his eyes and glared at Maxwell. “Stop that, Corporal.”

“Shut up, Major,” Maxwell nudged at the man’s thigh with his foot. “Listen, Martinson, as soon as we hit downtown Toledo, we're home free. I know enough shady people and places there to keep us out of daylight for years.”

“Shut up,” Martinson groaned, standing up, staggering towards them. Charles moved to stand as well, putting himself between Martinson and Maxwell. “Just shut up! Everyone keeps talking too much and not doing!” He waved the gun carelessly and Charles pushed Maxwell down, underneath the desk.

“Lieutenant, calm down, we’ve called the chopper, they will arrive at dawn.”

“Not good enough!” Martinson howled. “Shut up! Shut up!”

“Martinson!” Charles snapped, only for the gun to click as the safety was flicked off and it was cocked. 

He ducked down, hunching over the gap of the desk, Maxwell’s dark eyes fixed on him as the gunshot went off. Charles squeezed his eyes shut as Maxwell screamed, the sound of people racing to the door filling the air like a low thunder. Martinson fired off another shot and Charles expected impact, braced himself for the pain of a gun wound that never came. 

“Martinson!” Potter’s voice barked, and Charles braced himself once more. 

Maxwell was panting in the dark crevice, there was a sound of a very brief struggle, the voices of faceless M.P.’s as they dragged out a screaming, fighting Martinson. When Charles opened his eyes, he stared at Maxwell, the young man letting out a wheezing sob as he lunged forward, practically tackling Charles, clinging to him tightly as they tumbled back from the desk. Potter was crouched beside them, his hand resting upon Charles’ back firmly to keep them from falling on the floor. 

“You boys okay?” Potter asked, weary and his hands shaking. 

“Is everyone else alright?” Charles asked as he held Maxwell close.

“They’re fine, you got Martinson away before he could hurt anyone.” Potter gave Charles’ shoulder a pat. “Quick thinking, you two, you did good.”

Charles let out a deep, shuddering sigh and clutched Maxwell close, kissing at dark curls and feeling Maxwell shake as he silently sobbed into the doctor’s chest. “We’re alive.” He whispered. “That’s all that matters.”

Potter gave a brief chuckle and helped the two to their shaky feet. “Ain’t that the truth.” He gave them both a once over, made sure that adrenaline hadn’t covered up the pain of any gunshot wounds, and then gave Charles’ shoulder a pat. “Take your boy to your tent, you two earned a couple of days off with that stunt.”

The period between that order and how they got to the tent, changed into warm pajamas and cuddled up in bed together was a blurry one that Charles would probably never be able to remember or describe. But laying in bed, with Maxwell clutching at him, the smooth, fast-talking Corporal rendered silent as he clutched at Charles, was something that the doctor would remember until the day he died.

“I almost lost you,” Maxwell whispered, choking on the words. “You can’t leave me here alone, Charles.”

“I won’t.” The man whispered, kissing soft, trembling lips. “I promise.”

“Where you go I go, remember? Until death do us part.”

Charles kissed Maxwell softly, gently. “Of course. But that also means that you cannot go using yourself as a bargaining chip, Maxwell.”

They held one another close, letting the silence blanket them before Maxwell spoke again. “You don’t get to play hero without me. If you’re going, then I’ll go with you.”

“Morbid, darling.”

“You’d call me practical any other day.”

“Any other day I didn’t spend nearly six hours with a gun to my head.” Charles whispered softly, kissing Maxwell. “At least if I died then you’d have a fortune waiting for you in Boston.”

“I’d rather have you.” Maxwell clutched at the back of Charles’ pajamas, clinging to the man. “Always.”


	50. Pressure Points

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hunnicutt and Winchester anniversaries come and go. And conflict arises.

Christmas came and went with the usual fanfare, followed by the celebration of 1951 turning to 1952. Then there was Easter followed by the anniversary of B.J and Peg Hunnicutt. 

That seemed to foul the mood of the newest surgeon in the 4077th more than anything. It was as if nothing could make the man smile any more, his face set in a perpetual scowl, even an attempt by Charles and Pierce at starting up a prank war had not dragged the man from his morose days and nights spent either on duty or in the Swamp. Even an attempt at giving the man an anniversary party had failed to do much more than make everyone drunker and Hunnicutt more desperate for home and his wife and child. 

If anyone had bothered to confide in him, Charles would have told that for his own anniversary with Maxwell, three months after Hunnicutt’s anniversary celebration, that he merely wanted to spend the day off with Maxwell. He had managed to arrange said day off with Colonel Potter, had even had Honoria mail him a picnic basket filled with food from back home that was not SPAM or deviled chicken or vienna sausages, and taken Maxwell out for a nice, long day sitting beneath trees, gazing out into the valley below and pretending that they were back home. 

He would not have confided that they wanted a party. That they wanted a cake. Or any other celebration with the rest of the 4077th. 

So when they returned to the camp, they had not expected to be ambushed by Houlihan and O’Reilly, dragged to the mess tent for a surprise staff meeting, only to have confetti thrown into their faces and everyone shouting, “Surprise!”

Maxwell was laughing in delight, looking at the cake that read “Happy Anniversary Max and Chuck” in Sergeant Pernelli’s wobbling, sloppy handwriting. “Sal, it’s great!” Maxwell said as he grinned at the cake. 

“Hey, hey, hey, I helped out!” Straminsky nudged Maxwell’s shoulder with his elbow and Charles chuckled. 

“We figured since you two didn’t ask us for a cake we could give you one as a gift.” Potter smiled at the two men and Charles smiled, his hand resting upon Maxwell’s shoulder as the younger man bounced excitedly, waiting for Straminsky to give him a slice of cake. The piece didn’t even make it to the plate before Maxwell took it in his hand and held it up to Charles. 

“Come on, Major, take a bite!” Maxwell grinned and Charles leaned in, his mouth open. 

Only for the cake to be mashed into his mouth and nose, making him choke and laugh as he turned his head away, frosting smeared over his cheek and jaw. 

Everyone was laughing and Charles joined in as he took the offered piece from Straminsky, shoving it into Maxwell’s laughing mouth. The entire tent cheered and the happy couple continued to quietly snicker together, even as Charles mopped icing off of Maxwell’s face using his handkerchief, then his own face. They took another piece of cake each, sat down where Pierce was directing them. Hunnicutt had pasted on a smile, and held out a bottle of home made gin.

“Just in case you feel homesick.” Hunnicutt said, and Charles gave a small smirk.

“Of course, in case I felt the need to go blind.” Charles smiled as he placed the bottle on the table, Maxwell smiling as everyone continued to chat, eagerly drinking home made punch and the cake, the two guests of honor practically part of the furniture between everything. When everyone was sufficiently drunk and stumbling, Charles smiled and kissed Maxwell, guiding him to stand and inch towards the door. 

“Wait, wait! You can’t leave yet!” Pierce called and Charles sighed as the crowd turned, giving the two of them some space. “You haven’t had your dance!”

Charles had never felt more self conscious than the few minutes where Mulcahy played Vera Lynn’s Anniversary Waltz, singing along to the sheet music as he clumsily played the notes, his high tenor attempting to imitate the original singer’s alto. _“We just discovered each other tonight, when the lights were low. One dance led up to another, and now I can’t let you go!”_ The Father’s face was flushed as he sang such a romantic song, about a marriage, and Maxwell smiled up at Charles, his eyes filled with all the stars that Charles would ever need to see.

 _“So tell me I may always dance the Anniversary Waltz with you.”_ Maxwell picked up, Mulcahy falling silent as he kept playing. His voice was deeper, warmer, and Charles smiled as he drew Maxwell close, their arms held in the perfect posture of a true waltz, years of ballroom training coming back to Charles, even as he stood in the simple suit that Maxwell had sewn for him in a mess tent in Korea. _“Tell me this is real romance, an anniversary dream come true.”_ Maxwell smiled and tilted his head, trying to look down at their feet, only for Charles to guide him in a soft twirl, the whispering swish of the fringe of Maxwell’s dress licking at their shins. _“Let this be the anthem to our future years, through millions of smiles and a few little tears.”_ Those soft brown eyes looked up at Charles, and Charles looked down at Maxwell, guiding them through the steps as his husband sang softly. _“May I always listen to the Anniversary Waltz with you.”_

The room cheered as Mulcahy finished the song, and Maxwell leaned up on the tip toes of his heels, his weight easily held steady by Charles’ hands cupping his elbows while the younger man stole a kiss. 

Everyone drunkenly raised their mugs of punch for a toast and while they drank, Charles and Maxwell snuck out of the tent, carefully picking their way around mud puddles to their tent. 

Charles smiled down at Maxwell as they stood in their tent, breathing deeply. O’Reilly had clearly replaced the forgotten picnic basket in the tent, and as Charles placed it aside he smiled at the sight of one of Colonel Potter’s bottles of good whiskey inside. When he turned from locking the door, he raised a brow at the sight of Maxwell on the bed, leaning back with his palms on the bed and his legs crossed. 

“Something you’d like, pet?” Charles asked, smirking at the stood over Maxwell.

Maxwell lifted his foot, his gold high heel pressing to Charles’ stomach. “Help me with my shoes.” He ordered, and Charles smirked, kneeling down in order to kiss along Maxwell’s ankle and shin, undoing the ribbon that tied around Maxwell’s ankle, keeping the young man held captive even as golden shoes tumbled to the floor, like Cinderella’s slippers made of pure gold. 

Certainly he hoped that Boston held up to the fairy-tale story of their romance. Certainly they had not met at a beautiful ball, but Charles was certain he could make up for that when they returned to Boston. Even if he alienated every Boston socialite afterwards, he could give Maxwell a glittering party worthy of his beauty. Charles gave a soft kiss to the side of Maxwell’s knee before he leaned forward, fitting those perfect legs around his waist. 

Maxwell’s fingers crawled over Charles’ shoulders, clutching at the back of his silk shirt. “Major,” Maxwell moaned into Charles’ mouth, their bodies pressed tightly together. “Come on, Major, you gotta give me more than that.”

Charles gave a breathless laugh before he reached down and undid the zip of his trousers, unwilling to fight with his waistcoat and suspenders to get his trousers entirely off. He groaned as Maxwell hiked up his own skirt, fringe dancing over his thighs spilling onto the edge of the bed in a pool of navy, framing the purple silk that clung to Maxwell’s waist. He was beautiful, moaning softly as he stared at Charles, rumpled and debauched, a perfect muse for any Picasso painting with every colour and angle and desperate pleading eyes. 

“Please, Charles,” Maxwell whined, clearly tired of being admired, his legs twitching, trying to draw Charles closer. “ _Please_.”

Charles obeyed, gripping the base of his cock and pressing close, making Maxwell gasp and whine at the sudden stretch, his head thrown back onto the bed, the perfect arch of his throat a welcome invitation to Charles’ lips and teeth. Charles leaned in, biting at tender skin as he pressed close to Maxwell until the young man gasped and whined at the feeling of fullness. 

“Charles!” Maxwell sobbed, throwing his hand out to grab at the bedding. “Please please please please please.” He had managed to pull the sheets up with his grip, gasping at the feeling of Charles pulling back, only to thrust again, even and slow. “Yes, just like that.”

“Such a good girl,” Charles groaned, kissing at Maxwell’s lips softly. “Breathe, princess.” The shuddering breath that escaped Maxwell was perfect, and Charles grinned as he leaned in to swallow the noise, determined to coax more out of his husband. His love. His perfect dream ready to come true the moment they returned to Boston and escaped this nightmare.

* * *

“Oh, hey, Klinger, it’s okay, B.J. didn’t mean it.” O’Reilly’s voice was soft and soothing, like the tone he used when talking to his little menagerie of animals while he fed them. “He’s just upset, you know.”

“Everyone’s upset!” Maxwell choked out, and the sound of distress and tears made Charles’ heart speed up as he moved into the small clerk’s office. O’Reilly jumped and looked up at Charles, only for his gaze to turn pleading. 

“Oh, Major Winchester, uh…” O’Reilly looked up at him, then at Maxwell, who was wiping at his face with his fingers to try and keep the running mascara from dripping down his face.

“What happened?” Charles demanded, his voice cold and imperious as he pulled out his handkerchief, handing it to Maxwell, who accepted it and began to wipe at his face. 

“Just… You know.” Maxwell sniffled. “B.J. has been a bit short with me lately. And yeah, I get it, with all the… Our anniversary, and his a few months ago, and he’s just got news from Mrs. Hunnicutt that she’s taking up a job and I just…” Another swipe of the handkerchief over his under eye. “It’s just been little comments all week and I can’t take them any more.”

Charles stared at Maxwell before he crouched down, looking into Maxwell’s eyes firmly. “What did he say, Maxwell?”

Maxwell avoided his eyes. “He just… He said that you wouldn’t take me back to Boston.” He cleared his throat and looked down at his hands, wringing the handkerchief and smoothing out the embroidered CEWIII. “He said that… That it’s not real. That you would drop me the minute your reputation-”

Very rarely did Charles feel such a deep and searing fury that he cut Maxwell off, but he held up his hand, staring down at Maxwell before he leaned in and kissed his husband softly. “I will handle this. It is not the job of a Corporal to reprimand a Captain.”

“Major Winchester, you should really let Colonel Potter-”

“I will handle this, Corporal O’Reilly.” Charles snapped, turning to storm out of the office and across the compound. 

Hunnicutt was alone in the Swamp, and Charles immediately grabbed a pile of general mail and paper and garbage that had been piled up in the room since he and Frank Burns had moved out. The pile was tossed at Hunnicutt, who jumped and held up his hands, shouting as some of the mail impacted his body and fluttered onto the floor and bed. 

“Who do you think you _are_?” Charles shouted, uncaring of the attention he drew. “You’ve been a jackass for months, but this is low even for you.” 

“Shut up, Winchester, you’ve been a bitter monster ever since you got here, everyone says so!” Hunnicutt snapped. “If it weren’t for the fact that Klinger wants out just as much as you then you two wouldn’t be carrying this on as long as this!”

“ _What_?” Charles asked, shocked as he stared at the other doctor. “I never took you for a bigot, Hunnicutt.”

“I’m not! I just don’t respect people who are lying and conniving schemers,” Hunnicutt stood and glared at Charles, throwing his blanket aside as Charles stood, blocking the door, keeping Hunnicutt from escaping the confrontation.

“What do you even mean by that?” Charles snapped. 

“You’ve made that poor kid believe that you’re really going to take him with you to Boston!”

“I am!” Charles stepped forward. “Who do you think you are?” 

“Certainly not a _Winchester_.” Hunnicutt sneered, and Charles glared at him.

“Oh yes, so that’s it. It comes down to money and reputation, does it?” Charles crossed the room, shoving his finger into Hunnicutt’s chest. “I understand you’re upset that you’re stuck here-”

“No, you don’t understand!” Hunnicutt slapped Charles’ hand away. “You don’t understand because you’re here playing pretend, and I’m on the other side of the world from my wife and daughter, from my _family_.”

“You think that I _enjoy_ this!” Charles shouted, his voice rising to a roar. “Look around you!” He gestured to the tent, to the compound, to _Korea_. “Look at the place I have picked to have a marriage! This is _hell_ and I have to believe that we will both make it back to the States _alive_.”

“Oh come on, it’s not a _real_ marriage,” Hunnicutt snarled. “I just told Klinger the facts of life. What you two are doing isn’t going to work back in the States. It won’t even work outside of the 4077th. You’re living in a very small bubble with your marriage performed by a drunken old Japanese man while you two were blottoed!”

“And you think that that gives you a right to mistreat Maxwell?” Charles felt his fury rising like bile in his throat, as if he could spit venom. “You think you’re better than us?”

“Oh, how could I ever be _better_ than a _Winchester_? _Win_ is the first part of your name!” Hunnicutt snapped.

“Oh stop acting like your personal distaste for me is what made you hurt Maxwell.” Charles snarled, physically shoving Hunnicutt towards the door to the Swamp. “You think that we’re liars and schemers, fine, I’ve been called worse and I am certainly a liar and a schemer!” He gave another shove. “You think that I’m an greed-driven egotist, fine!” Another hard shove sent him stumbling into the compound and Charles followed him, the two surgeons breaking through the crowd that had gathered around the tent. “But don’t you dare drag my marriage through the mud because you feel you are failing in your own.”

“It’s not _real_! You’re going to go back home and it’s going to be nothing! No one will recognize it! The minute you get some opposition you’re going to crack!”

Charles glared at Hunnicutt, his fists clenched, and he breathed deeply, pulling back to stare silently at Hunnicutt. “I don’t need to prove anything to you, Hunnicutt.”

“No, son, you don’t.” 

The two surgeons turned, both dropping their heads in shame like chastised children as Colonel Potter approached them, his hands folded behind his back as O’Reilly came running after him, clipboard in hand and eyes wide. 

“Winchester, Hunnicutt,” Potter looked at the two, his hands held behind his back as he tilted his head up to catch their shamed gazes. “I believe in everyone voicing their opinions, the free and open exchange of information and ideas and all of that.” Potter’s eyes were hard and disappointed. “But not when you become a spectacle in the middle of the compound, Winchester.” He turned to Hunnicutt. “And not when you go around taking out your own frustration on the enlisted men.”

“Potter, he-” Charles began, only to be cut off.

“I don’t want to hear it! All I want is for you two to shake hands and make up.”

“I refuse.” Charles said simply, glaring at the other man. 

“Same.”

“Shake!” Potter barked, as if ordering a pair of dogs to do a trick. They obeyed, like good soldiers, and Charles glared at Hunnicutt, who met the challenging gaze with his own narrow-eyed look. “There, now you two don’t have to like one another, just tolerate one another an awful lot. So whatever conflict there is between you, work it out. And that’s an order!”


	51. Goodbye, Radar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Radar O'Reilly goes home, and Maxwell worries about their own future.

Charles sighed as he sat on the bench in the scrub room, Maxwell leaning against his shoulder already half asleep. Hunnicutt and Pierce were working at the sink to clean the talc off their hands and arms. Things had been quiet and calm, if tense between the three surgeons. Pierce didn’t agree with Hunnicutt, but they were best friends, and Charles wouldn’t ask Pierce to take _his_ side. Not when the two of them had spent so many long months arguing back and forth. Potter walked into the room, his face solemn and quiet as he sat down on the bench across from Charles and Maxwell. 

“Any of you seen Radar? Klinger?”

“Last I saw him, he was in the Officers Club having a touch of the grape.” Pierce said as he wiped off his hands, looking at Potter and realizing that there was no room for jokes. “Why? What's wrong?”

“Plenty.” Potter sighed and rubbed his face slowly with a worn palm. “I just got a wire from the boy's mother in Iowa. Radar's uncle Ed passed away.”

“Oh…” Hunnicutt whispered, staring at Potter. 

“Yeah. Oh.” Potter looked up at the group. “Klinger… Can you bring Radar to the office? I’ll let him use my office for that call.”

* * *

Maxwell paced as Charles leaned against the door to the clerk’s office, his hands tucked into his pockets. Pierce, Hunnicutt, Potter, and Mulcahy were all waiting as well, quietly listening to the faint murmur of O’Reilly’s voice in Potter’s office. When he finally stepped out of the office he looked subdued. There was no happy, child-like optimism. No innocence. Charles watched as Maxwell turned and quickly hugged O’Reilly, who returned the tight hug desperately, his face tucked to the simple cotton of Maxwell’s dress. 

“What'd your mom say, Radar?” Hunnicutt asked, quiet and calm and Charles tried not to feel bitterness. This was not about Charles and Hunnicutt’s conflict. This was about O’Reilly.

“Mostly that she's okay.” O’Reilly mumbled into Maxwell’s shoulder before he pulled back, breathing deeply, his eyes welled with tears that he fought to hold back. “Uncle Ed's funeral is tomorrow. Everybody in Ottumwa is gonna be there.” He smoothed his hands over his trousers, wiping sweat off. “Except me.” He whispered, more to himself than anyone else. “Our neighbor Mr. Whitsett said he would look after the farm till everything's settled. Then Mom can take over for herself. She says it's about time she gets off her fat you-know-what anyway.”

“It's not gonna be easy for her, though, is it?” Potter asked, pacing over to his clerk. “As I remember, the lady has some high blood pressure.”

O’Reilly nodded silently, fumbling with morning reports that needed to be finished, needed to be filed. “Yep. A little arthritis when it rains, too. But she says she's fine.”

“Quite a woman, your mother.” Charles said softly. 

“Yeah. I know.” O’Reilly stared down at his desk, holding back grief and pain and worry.

“Takes after her son.” Potter agreed quietly.

“How about you, Radar? You all right?” Pierce asked, his hand resting upon O’Reilly’s shoulder.

The young man looked up at his hero, blinking before he shook himself out of his thoughts. “Huh? Yeah. I'm okay. I mean, I don't wanna be, but I guess I have to be…” He shrugged and clenched his fist. “I'm the man of the family now.”

“That's right, son.” Potter nodded. “And you're going home. Go get yourself a DA-7 hardship discharge and type your name on it.”

Everyone gave a wave of soft, reassuring smiles to the boy, who’s breath hitched. Maxwell smiled and took the form out of the filing cabinet, and gently moved O’Reilly from in front of the desk.

“I’ll get it done. Since I’ll be taking over for you anyway.”

O’Reilly still stood, in shock as he stared at Maxwell and then at Potter again, his voice choked out of his throat. “I'm goin' home, sir?”

“Radar, Lord knows your mother is a strong woman, but she won't make it alone. You oughta be there with her.” Potter smiled and O’Reilly looked from him to Pierce.

Pierce smiled at him more widely, pulling O’Reilly into a tight hug. “You heard him right, Radar. Your time has come. 

“I'll notify the Red Cross, and they'll have I-Corps process you tout de suite. You should be home in time for Sunday night supper.” Potter smiled and rubbed at O’Reilly’s shoulder firmly. 

“Save some leftovers for us.” Hunnicutt joked quietly.

“Home. I'm going home?” Shock still held tight to O’Reilly, but Charles could hardly blame the boy. He’d feel the same way if someone told him he would be going home right that second.

“Where you belong.” Charles smiled. “Just like that.”

* * *

Hunnicutt was in the O Club, silently drinking a beer. Charles was about to turn around, to try and find where Maxwell had gotten off to with O’Reilly for the boy’s last night in the 4077th, when Hunnicutt waved him down, drunkenly calling Charles’ name. 

“What do you want, Hunnicutt?” Charles asked, crossing the empty club to stand over Hunnicutt’s table. He didn’t take a seat, staring down at the other surgeon with an exhaustion that he felt down to his bones. “Ready to spew more vitriol at me? How about my husband? Or my marriage in general?”

Perhaps Hunnicutt felt the same because he simply said, “I don’t hate you or Klinger.” He said softly. “I just…” Hunnicutt looked down and whispered. “I wish I had Peg to dance with on my anniversary.”

Charles paused before he sighed and sat down. Maxwell and O’Reilly could have their time together, they likely didn’t need him to drag them away from anything just yet. “Hunnicutt, how could you wish Peg here?” Charles asked. “I wouldn’t wish anyone to pursue a marriage here, Maxwell and I have become a rather stupid example of such choices.”

“I don’t wish she was here. I just… I wish I was there. With her, with Erin.” Hunnicutt rubbed his eyes and sipped at the last of his beer. “Erin is crawling around now. She’s saying one word sentences, she’s changed so much.” Charles didn’t speak, didn’t interrupt. “I miss them more than anything else. I just want to kiss my wife, I want to hold my daughter.”

Charles stared at Hunnicutt then leaned back and sighed. “Hunnicutt…” Charles said softly. “I’m not going to forgive what you said. To Maxwell or myself. I have yet to hear an apology. Only excuses for poor behaviour.” He stood and looked at the other surgeon. “Believe me, I’m the expert at those. I make them all the time.” He gave a wry smile and shook his head. “Apologize to Maxwell, and I will forgive your cruel words and accusations.”

Hunnicutt worked his jaw, staring up at Charles, and the older surgeon narrowed his eyes. 

“I thought not.” Charles turned and left the O club to search for Maxwell and O’Reilly.

* * *

It had been a long surgery that had interrupted Radar O’Reilly’s going away party. Everyone had rushed through their goodbyes, and when the deluge of bodies had stopped, the cake had been served in chunks fed to surgeons and nurses while they stood over their patients. 

When Charles arrived at his and Maxwell’s tent, the young corpsman was sitting on the bed, sniffling and staring down at something clutched in his hands. 

“Maxwell?” The young man clutched the item to his chest and Charles recognized O’Reilly’s teddy bear, the tattered pink ribbon tied around the toy’s neck. “Oh… Maxwell.” Charles sat down, kissing at Maxwell’s tear-streaked cheeks, his fingers cupping the back of Maxwell’s head.

“I didn’t get to say a real goodbye.” Maxwell whispered. “I didn’t get to.” 

Charles wrapped his arms tightly around the younger man, kissing Maxwell’s head as the young man clutched at the back of his shirt, the teddy bear pressed between their chests. 

“We’ll see him again.” Charles whispered. “I promise, we will go to Ottumwa, the first year we’re back. I’ll buy us tickets.”

Maxwell sobbed softly. “Colonel Blake, Captain McIntyre, Radar…” Maxwell pressed his face to Charles’ chest. “What if… What if… What if I don’t make it back? What if you don’t? They send you to the battalion aid station so much.” Maxwell sobbed. “What if we never see Radar again? Or my ma? Or Honoria?”

“Don’t think these thoughts.” Charles pressed his forehead to the young man’s own, fixing their eyes together. “We will go back to the States. I swear. And when we’re there, I’ll take you anywhere you want. We’ll visit anyone your heart desires.”

Maxwell sniffled and clutched at Charles’ shoulders, looking into the surgeon’s blue eyes. “You can’t promise that.” He whispered weakly.

“A Winchester always keeps his word.” Charles said gently as he smiled at Maxwell. “We’ll be home again, I swear.”

“Home.” Maxwell whispered, closing his eyes as he wrapped his arms tightly around Charles’ shoulders, tilting his head to tuck his face against Charles’ neck. “I just want to go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Season 6


	52. Period of Adjustment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone takes some time to adjust to Maxwell's new position as company clerk. Charles decides to help him relax, with fantasies of something different.

Maxwell slammed the door to their tent shut, scowling as he looked at Charles, who looked up from his Boston Globe that Maxwell had delivered earlier that day. “Radar this! Radar that! I miss _Radar_! Wish that we still had _Radar_ as company clerk!” The young man tossed a package and a couple of letters onto the bed and turned around the room, as if he wanted to destroy something. When his more gentle nature finally won out he kicked at his footlocker, only to wince as his open-toed heels failed to protect his foot. “Ouch! Ow, ow, ow, ow!”

Charles placed his newspaper aside and immediately shushed Maxwell. “Oh, darling, sit down, sit down.” He guided Maxwell to sit, the young man scowling as Charles removed his shoe quickly and checked him over. “You’ve split the nail, darling.” He gently stroked over Maxwell’s ankle and turned to collect the small first aid kit that Charles had assembled over the course of numerous bug outs. He collected his bottle of iodine and carefully dabbed some onto the split toenail of Maxwell’s big toe, tending to the injury gently as Maxwell sniffled and whined. 

“I lost a friend too.” He murmured. “And everyone is acting like I didn’t. Like they’re more entitled to being upset that Radar left.” The younger man sighed and rubbed his face. “And I know I’m not Radar, but Colonel Potter expects me to just… _Know_ the way Radar knew what he needed, what he wanted.”

“I feel that everyone forgets that O’Reilly was once new to the job too.” Charles kissed Maxwell’s ankle and gently placed his foot down. “Perhaps some help might be in order?”

The younger man sniffled and looked at his husband, holding out his arms like a child demanding comfort. Charles smiled and wrapped his arms around Maxwell, lifting him into his lap to cuddle and relax. “I don’t want to go back to the office yet.” Maxwell grumbled, cuddling close to Charles. 

“Why don’t we check the mail, hmm?” Charles picked up the package and smiled at the weight of it, and Honoria’s swirling handwriting on the brown paper. “Something wrapped in plain brown paper.” He tore it open and Maxwell blinked before he excitedly snatched the icy blue cover from Charles and then slid it into the man’s hand, already opened to the first chapter. “You don’t want to know what we’re reading?”

“No, I just want your voice.” Maxwell said softly as he tucked his face to Charles’ neck. “Just read to me.”

They settled back in the bed, Charles’ arms protectively wrapped around Maxwell’s slender form as the young man tucked himself against Charles’ chest. The surgeon carefully held the book over Maxwell’s head, reading over the mess of unruly curls tucked beneath his chin as he held the younger man close. _“Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically.”_ Charles began, his voice smooth and dramatic, as it always was when he read to Maxwell. _“The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”_ Charles tried not to balk as he realized just what they were sent by his sister. _“This was more or less Constance Chatterley’s position. The war had brought the roof down over her head. And she had realized that one must live and learn.”_

They sat like that, for over an hour, Maxwell squirming as he listened to Charles’ voice, low and furtive as he read the shameless romance of Lady Chatterly. By the time the gamekeeper had returned to Lady Chatterley’s side after her conversation with Mrs. Flint, Maxwell was squirming, all but rutting against Charles even as the older man smirked and rested his hand against the small of Maxwell’s back, his leg pressed between Maxwell’s thighs, giving the clerk a reward for his quiet eagerness. He pressed his lips to Maxwell’s jaw, whispering as he read the book, feeling the younger man grind and thrust against his thigh eagerly. 

_“She clung to him unconscious in passion, and he never quite slipped from her, and she felt the soft bud of him within her stirring, and strange rhythms flushing up into her with a strange rhythmic growing motion, swelling and swelling till it filled all her cleaving consciousness, and then began again the unspeakable motion that was not really motion, but pure deepening whirlpools of sensation swirling deeper and deeper through all her tissue and consciousness, till she was one perfect concentric fluid of feeling, and she lay there crying in unconscious inarticulate cries.”_

Charles’ breath hitched as Maxwell’s hands slid over his stomach, reaching to undo the surgeon’s belt and the button and zip of his pants, finding the hard length of him and beginning to stroke. Charles kept his voice even, breathing deeply before he continued, determined to keep his voice even. _“The voice out of the uttermost night, the life! The man heard it beneath him with a kind of awe, as his life sprang out into her. And as it subsided, he subsided too and lay utterly still, unknowing, while her grip on him slowly relaxed, and she lay inert.”_ Maxwell’s lip on his neck made Charles stop, made him breathe deeply, his free hand gripping at the curve of Maxwell’s thigh, holding him close as the younger man whined and sank his teeth into Charles’ neck, a possessive, hungry gesture that made Charles groan lowly. _“And they lay and knew nothing, not even of each other… both… lost…”_

Charles trailed off and then tossed the book away, his hand gathering a fistful of Maxwell’s skirt, lifting the fabric so that he could slide his hands over the back of Maxwell’s thighs. “Little minx.” He growled, giving a sharp smack to Maxwell’s thigh, which made the younger man yelp and whine, squirming in Charles’ grip. “Look at you, rutting against me. Can you not control yourself, darling?” 

Charles lips parted and he tilted his head, practically begging for a kiss as Charles guided him onto his back. “Looks like I’m not the only one that can’t control myself.” He teased, his fingers wrapped tightly around Charles’ length, stroking him slowly enough that Charles couldn’t help but let out an impatient groan. Maxwell shivered and bit his lower lip, drawing Charles’ gaze until the man leaned in to kiss him slowly, eagerly. When they parted, Maxwell gasped and moaned. “Maybe I liked the idea of being a nice rich lady, and you being my lover.”

The thought thrilled him and Charles pressed their hips together, Maxwell’s thighs framing Charles’ waist as he shifted and let Charles press him into the bed. “Oh?” Charles purred, kissing at Maxwell’s jaw, his neck, grinding their bodies together, the rough movement of their thrusts making Maxwell shake even before Charles could part his legs further, guide himself to the warmth of his young lover’s body. “Something secret? Would you like me to take you in hidden little places? Desperate and fast and worried about being caught.”

Maxwell shivered and bit his lip, nodding as he stared up at Charles, the man’s broad palms cupping at Maxwell’s hips, guiding him so that they could buck and thrust eagerly against one another, not even bothering to undress more than just sliding Maxwell’s thin lace underwear down, and Charles’ pants open just enough that they could press close skin to skin. Charles grinned as he kissed Maxwell, biting at his lower lip, sucking at the tender skin, fantasizing about taking Maxwell in the xray room, in the supply closet, in the showers, even in that small hallway of a clerk’s office that Maxwell had been banished to. 

“Would you truly like that?” Charles asked curiously, and Maxwell flushed but nodded, shivering as he felt Charles press closer to him, the slow rise of desire, the slow and eager movements of their bodies finally coming to a crescendo as Maxwell choked on his breath, hungry and desperate. 

“Yes, Major.” Maxwell moaned, staring up at the surgeon. “Please.”

* * *

Maxwell’s shifts had not gotten much better, and while Charles knew that he would adapt quickly enough, as he always did, it was still difficult to watch the young man being harassed by comrades, friends, and even Potter, who Maxwell saw as a father figure. Mail had not yet been delivered, and Charles knew that while Maxwell might struggle with the other tasks, the mail was still an easy task he could get done on time. He worried, quietly, that Maxwell might be the victim of another dressing down after Houlihan’s frustration at a requisition for two new nurses had been lost. Charles checked the clock and looked over at Nurse Whitfield, calling out to her. 

“I will return momentarily,” He reassured her and she smiled, giving him a brief salute. 

He made his way down the hallway, pausing outside the door to Maxwell’s office when he heard Potter’s voice say, “Park it in the chair, Corporal.”

“It's not plugged in, is it?” Maxwell asked, wryly as he shuffled through papers, clearly trying to get the mail in order.

“Let's, uh, clear the air, Klinger.” Potter sighed and Charles peered in through the doorway. Potter was leaning against Maxwell’s desk, looking down at the young man as Maxwell fingered the corner of a package he needed to deliver. “I think we both realize you're no Radar.”

Maxwell huffed softly. “So they tell me, sir.”

“But by the same token, Radar is no Klinger.” Potter pointed out, causing Maxwell to look up curiously.

“I don't follow you, sir.”

Potter rubbed the back of his neck and Charles felt a twinge of sympathy for the man. He looked exhausted and maybe a bit heartbroken at the loss of O’Reilly. He just wanted what was best for the unit, even if what was best would take some time to adjust into. “Folks around here were awfully fond of Henry Blake when he ran this fort, weren't they?”

“Well, sure.” Maxwell shrugged. “The colonel was a top-notch kind of a guy.”

“You bet he was. And believe me, my first days in his shadow were a mite uneasy. Nobody was jumping for joy over me. I was no Henry Blake. Never tried to be.” Potter gave Maxwell a stern look. “That didn't mean I was better or worse. Just different. The thing is the people here gave me a chance to get comfortable and to make this job Sherman Potter's.” Potter sighed and rubbed the back of his neck as he looked at Maxwell, more apologetic than before. “I guess maybe I forgot that when you took over for Radar.” They sat in silence, Maxwell wringing his fingers as he sat at the clerk’s desk, staring at the typewriter as he waited for Potter to continue. “What I'm trying to tell you is you need the time to take this job and make it Max Klinger's. So just do it! And if you need some help, if you've got a question, just knock on my door. Is that clear, Max?”

Maxwell smiled up at Potter, nodding his head as he preened and a new sense of pride and delight seemed to fill him, like seeing wine fill a glass. “Crystal clear, sir.”

Potter smiled and gave Maxwell’s shoulder a squeeze. “All right. As of right now, Radar's office is closed. Klinger's is open.”

Charles smiled as Maxwell gave a salute, standing up in his thick woolen skirt and heels. “I’ll be the best clerk you’ll ever have, sir, you can count on me!”

“Good, I’d much rather have a good clerk than a good soldier working over here anyway.”


	53. The Merchant of Korea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Maxwell adjust to Maxwell's duties, and have a dinner to remember.

“What wouldn’t I pay for real food, good food.” Pierce groaned as he sat, staring at a pile of limp, blue-tinged bacon. Charles sat across from him, nursing his own mug of coffee and a tray with some powdered scrambled eggs. The quality of food for the 4077th had dropped since O’Reilly’s departure, and with it so had morale. Maxwell was a world class scrounger, and was doing his best, but without the connections and practice that O’Reilly had he was still struggling to get his footing. That meant that more urgent things, such as reports and medical requisitions and personnel requisitions got filed first, and everything else followed second, sometimes even third. 

Mail delivery seemed to be the only time that Charles saw his husband anymore, as some night Maxwell had to sleep in the small clerk’s office, waiting for a phone call to come through or finishing up his reports so late that all he could manage was the few steps across the room to the small cot. 

Everyone took O’Reilly’s absence hard. Everyone missed him, loved him, missed how well he had done his job. 

“Radar, Radar, Radar.” Maxwell huffed, glaring at the requisition forms, and Charles smiled as he leaned his hip against Maxwell’s desk while the younger man glared and continued typing. “What do you need, Zale? _Radar back_. What do you want, Pernelli? _Radar back_. What do you want, Houlihan? _Radar back_!”

“Calm down, my love.” Charles said softly. “You have me here, what can I do to help?”

“I don’t _know_.” Maxwell groaned, looking at the piles of paper. “It’s _all_ important and it _all_ needs to get done and I’m just so frustrated.”

“Well, why don’t we look at organizing this mess first?”

“I got it organized! Everything goes into a pile and every pile goes everywhere!”

Charles picked up the nearest pile and flicked through it. “These aren’t even organized by date, or what they are, Maxwell.”

Maxwell scowled at him. “What happened to being on my side?”

“I am, darling, but part of that means helping dig you out of your own messes.”

Maxwell huffed, but didn’t argue as Charles began to shuffle through a variety of papers, trying to get them in order by date at least. 

“What’s this?” He asked curiously, turning over a handwritten note. 

“Oh, uh…” Maxwell sighed. “Major Houlihan has been down in the dumps, you know, since Major Burns left?”

“Yes, of course.” Charles didn’t understand why, but he understood the emotions that Houlihan had been quietly dealing with. 

“Well… I thought that I could do some horse trading to get her a nice birthday dinner, you know? But I can’t even get regular supplies in.” Maxwell sighed and looked at the list. “Her birthday was two weeks ago.”

“Well, why don’t you leave this lovely list with me and I will see what I can do for another celebration?” Charles asked, smiling at Maxwell. 

Before Maxwell could respond, the phone rang, and the young Corporal grabbed it, hooking up the wires like the most lovely and diligent cable girl that Charles had ever seen. “M*A*S*H* 4077th, Corporal Klinger speaking, may I take your order?” He smiled, crossing his legs at the ankles as he picked up a scrap of paper and a pen. “Uh huh.. Oh… Oh come on, Captain Pratt!” Maxwell’s eyes went wide. “They’ll crucify me! I’m new to this, can’t you send us money from someone else? What about the 8063rd? Oh… A deli in Newark? Okay… Okay, thank you, Cpatain Pratt.” 

“That didn’t sound good.” Charles said simply, taking in Maxwell’s pale face. 

“Everyone in camp is going to _kill_ me, Major baby.”

“They won’t, darling, come along, I’ll be right beside you.”

“Good to feel like I have my own body guard.” Maxwell adjusted the peter-pan collar of his blouse, his heavy wool skirt, and then clicked the heels of his black high heels. “To the mess tent.”

They crossed the compound and Charles curiously watched as Maxwell leaned over Colonel Potter’s breakfast. “Sir, permission to whisper in your ear?”

“What's the problem?” Potter asked and Maxwell leaned close to whisper something into the man’s ear. “What do you mean there's not enough pay? That--Never mind that. Just spit it out, son.”

Maxwell turned, nervously, to look at the tent, then cleared his throat. “Okay. Headquarters in Tokyo fouled up and sent part of our pay to a bakery unit in Guam. It's gonna take at least a week to straighten it all out.”

The entire mess tent was in an uproar. “Thanks a _lot_ , Klinger!” Sergeant Zale shouted, clearly holding the new clerk personally responsible. 

“Hey, hey, that’s not my fault!” Maxwell shouted back.

“At ease, at ease.” Potter stood and sighed, clasping his hands together behind his back. “Shut 'em up. All right, Klinger, take whatever money comes in tomorrow, pool it, and pay off the enlisted men until the well runs dry.”

“Colonel, what about the officers?” Maxwell asked, looking at the surgeons, Hunnicutt in particular looked very pale at the thought of not having enough money to send to his wife. 

“S.O.P., Klinger, at least for this pay cycle you’re going to be the breadwinner between you and the Mister-Major. No shame in that, when we were younger the Mrs. Potter sometimes made more in tips than I ever made from the Army.” Potter smirked at Maxwell, who was still looking nervous with his task.

“To hell with regulations!” Hunnicutt shouted. “I need that money to pay for land! If I don’t send that money to Peg then someone else will buy that land and build a shopping center on it!”

“Ooh, Captain.” Potter shook his collar briefly. “Don't yell at my bird.”

Charles raised a brow as Maxwell left, skittering to escape the mess tent and return to his office to try and get the pay sorted. Potter followed along, his bird most likely hoping to help Maxwell get the pay situation sorted faster. 

Hunnicutt was running his hands through his hair, talking to Pierce as Houlihan continued to eat her meal, seemingly frustrated by this conversation repeating itself. “Peg and I have wanted this property ever since we were married. It's got trees, the beach, a view of San Francisco, everything!”

“Sounds all right if you're willing to settle for everything.” Pierce said as he sipped at his coffee.

“I gotta have this money today, and I don't have it.” Hunnicutt looked at Charles, and his eyes looked hesitant before Charles smirked at him.

“Have a question for me, Hunnicutt?”

Pierce didn’t hesitate to step in for his friend, “Charles, B.J. Needs $200. Lend him some, will ya?”

Charles leaned forward on his elbows. “Quiet, Pierce,” He said, staring right at Hunnicutt. “I want to hear Captain Hunnicutt say it.” 

“Drop dead, Winchester.” Hunnicutt glared.

“Hunnicutt, you deserve a small amount of humiliation after all of the abuse you’ve subjected Maxwell to, your claims that my marriage is a sham, and your incredibly hurtful words that I will abandon Maxwell to this hell when the war is over.” Charles pulled out his wallet and counted out the $200 that Hunnicutt needed. “Now. What’s the magic phrase, Hunnicutt?”

The other surgeon glared, worked his jaw, and then whispered. “Charles. Could I borrow $200?”

“Of course, Hunnicutt.” Charles passed over the money and smirked. “Now, run along to Maxwell, he’ll make sure that the money gets to Blondie, Dagwood.”

* * *

“So what’s in the big box, Charles? Chow?” Maxwell asked as he hefted the large box onto their small table. “Honoria always sends the best stuff.”

Charles smiled and gave Maxwell’s nose a gentle tap. “Not chow, darling, masterpieces of the culinary arts.”

“Right, chow.” Maxwell grinned as he set up the two chairs, throwing a piece of cotton over the table in order to give some sense of culture.

“Maxwell, prepare yourself for the finest meal you've had in Korea, perhaps in your life.” Charles grinned as he opened the box and carefully spread out the various cans and jars wrapped in several swathes of fine fabrics that Honoria had sent for Maxwell. “Tonight's menu begins with Beluga caviar, followed by truffles.” Charles grinned at Maxwell and sang briefly, “Nobody knows the truffles I've seen.”

Maxwell laughed and grinned at Charles, following up with, “Nobody knows my sorrows.”

The two of them laughed and grinned as they sat and unpacked the box. “Uh, moving on quickly to the pâté, followed by the smoked oyster, and a true epicurean delight, Devonshire pheasant.”

“Pheasant?” Maxwell asked as he eagerly began to open cans and jars. 

“All accompanied, very discreetly by a Montrachet 1947.”

“And I was on my way to hash!” Maxwell grinned in delight, gathering up the two glasses that Charles had acquired for them a few weeks previously. 

“To civilization in Korea. This is it.” Charles smiled as he produced a tongue depressor, dipping it into the caviar. “Now, Maxwell, you must know this, above all else, that caviar must never, never, _never_ be touched by a metal utensil.”

“Really?” Maxwell asked as he leaned close, expectantly opening his mouth.

Charles shivered at the sight, Maxwell’s pink tongue licking at his lower lip, and when Charles dipped the wooden depressor into Maxwell’s mouth, the wooden stick pulled back with lipstick marks forming perfect crescents. “Hmm-mm. Only wood.” Charles said as he fed Maxwell another couple of bites. “Delicious, isn’t it?”

“It is, I’ve never had caviar.” Maxwell grinned. “Or pheasant. But then again, there’s lots of things I never did before I met you.”

Charles grinned, hungry and wolfish, before he leaned in to steal a kiss, feeling Maxwell’s lips move eagerly against his own mouth. “Well, let’s try the pheasant next.”

“Do we use forks for that?” Maxwell asked curiously as Charles removed the bird from the can, dividing it up into two. 

“Oh no, no, no, darling. Follow me. There are certain things that still call for the barbaric approach, don't you agree?” Charles grinned and began to pick bones out of the bird cooked so tender that it practically fell off of the bones. The taste of the game bird made Charles groan with delight. “I miss hunting season in New England, going to my grandfather’s lodge, hunting pheasant and quail and deer.”

“I’ve never had quail or deer either.” Maxwell gave a shy smile. “Though I’m not sure I’d be able to hunt. I’d go along with you on the long walks, but I don’t think I could pull the trigger.”

“Of course,” Charles smiled, feeding Maxwell a bite of pheasant. “One of these days you’ll be able to put your gun down and never pick another one up again for any reason.”

Maxwell grinned and pulled Charles close, his grease and bird-covered fingers tangled in Charles’ fatigues, drawing him closer and closer for a deep kiss. When he pulled back he took another few bites and then frowned at Charles. “Is this the way that a pheasant is supposed to taste? It tastes funny.”

“Oh, Maxwell, I assure you, this is the way a pheasant is supposed to taste. It is, after all, a game bird.” Charles said around a mouthful of meat.

“Well, I'm game, too.” Maxwell laughed and took more bites, only to freeze when he heard the sound of the P.A. system crackling on.

“Attention, all personnel. Choppers and litter jeeps headed this way. All medical teams report for triage.

* * *

“Major?” Maxwell groaned as they sat in the scrub room, belching in symphony and both of them feeling very green and nauseated. 

“Yes, Corporal?” Charles leaned over the scrub sink, trying to will himself to make the trek to the latrine. 

“Tell Honoria to check the expiration dates on those cans from now on. If I wanted rotten surplus, I’d just eat what the Army serves up.”

Charles gave a small laugh, clearing his throat as he stood and let Maxwell lean against him. “Don’t make me laugh, darling, or we’ll both be covered in vomit.”

“Okay, okay, let’s get to the tent and we can be sick together.” Maxwell groaned and the two of them began to slow walk across the compound, avoiding mud puddles and personnel as best as they could. They walked into the tent and Maxwell immediately laid down on the bed, groaning in exhaustion. “Major, throw away the pheasant.”

Charles nodded and sighed before he turned to look at the table, freezing at the sight of the cleaned off table. “Maxwell, did you come back and get rid of it earlier?”

“No, the only time I left was to answer the call of nature.” Maxwell rolled over, looking up at Charles. “Why?”

“It’s gone.” Charles said simply.

They were silent for a few long moments before Charles began to laugh so hard that some of his disgusting dinner actually did come up from his stomach. He threw up into the bedpan they tended to use to wash Maxwell’s hair, causing Maxwell to groan and vomit into the bedpan as well. 

“What’s so funny, Major?” Maxwell asked after he’d finished emptying out his stomach. 

“Whoever stole our bounty is in for a rather vile surprise.”

Maxwell grinned slowly, staring up at Charles. “Wanna set up the lawn chairs outside the latrines?”

It wasn’t long before they saw Pierce and Hunnicutt racing across the compound to the latrine, fighting to get into the wooden construction first. 

Maxwell laughed, his olive skin turned the most olive drab that anyone had seen on him since his arrival. “Have a good meal, Captains?”


	54. The Young and Restless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some new surgeons are requisitioned, and Charles finds himself shadowed by one of them.

“Alright, everyone, please welcome our new staff, Captain James Simmons, Captain Steven Newsome, Captain Lorraine Anderson, and Lieutenant Gail Harris. Two doctors and two nurses that our new company clerk managed to acquire for us.”

“Finally, we’re almost at full capacity!” Pierce grinned brightly. “Not to mention some nice change of scenery in the O.R., Captain, Lieutenant.” 

“Down, Pierce,” Houlihan snapped at the man before she smiled. “Lorraine happens to be a personal friend, so if you start to let your lechery run free then I’ll be the first to know.”

“I’m going to agree with my head nurse, Pierce, at least give them a couple of weeks to get used to the place before you start to pull any fast stuff.” Potter agreed, smiling at the new arrivals. “Simmons, Newsome, you two get set up in the Swamp.”

“Oh, won’t that be a bit tight with all three of the other surgeons?” Simmons asked, looking up at Potter with wide eyes. 

Potter cleared his throat, clearly trying to figure out an answer, so Charles decided to step in for the man. He squared his shoulders and looked down the straight line of his own nose at the two new Captains, pinning them with an imperious look. “I have other living arrangements, which are none of your concern.”

“O-oh.” Simmons said, his eyes wide as he cleared his throat and looked at the man. “I’m sorry, Major.”

“Quite.” Charles said, scowling at the two doctors. 

“Well, everyone needs to get settled in, so go ahead and get thing set up, I’m sure Pierce and Hunnicutt can show our surgeons around, and Houlihan can make the nurse’s feel at home.”

“What about Major Winchester?” Captain Simmons asked, looking at Charles with wide eyes. 

“Only if you can survive his sunshine-like demeanor.” Potter said with a smile. 

“Yeah, he’s so warm and bright. Like a solar flare.” Pierce said as he stood, patting Simmons’ shoulder. “Come on, we’ll show you our initiation ritual for new doctors here.”

Charles snorted and stood, walking out of the office. “Well, Simmons, watch out, knowing Pierce and Hunnicutt they want you as a virgin to sacrifice.”

“Well we’d have to, ever since Klinger gave it up.” Pierce pointed out with a grin. 

Charles rolled his eyes as the door shut and gave Maxwell a brief smile as he leaned against the desk. The young clerk was grinning broadly at Charles, his eyes glittering with delight. “Not bad for my first personnel request?”

“You could have gotten someone… A bit older for a surgeon, but that’s alright.” Charles smiled. 

“Really?” Maxwell frowned. “Captain Simmons came highly recommended! He did his residency at John Hopkins, he’s a real bright kid, a prodigy!”

“So why give him to a M*A*S*H*?” Charles asked with a frown. “What is wrong with him?”

“What else is wrong with doctors who get sent here? None of you know how to kiss the right asses.” Maxwell smirked. “And you should take a look at Leiutenant Harris’ file too! _Apparently_ she’s applying for medical school too.” Maxwell grinned up at Charles. “I’m the Queen of two for one deals!”

“You absolutely are,” Charles chuckled, smiling down at the clerk as the doors to Potter’s office opened and the other surgeons and nurses left, walking past Maxwell’s desk. Simmons gave the two of them a curious look, but didn’t manage to say anything as he was ushered out by Pierce and Hunnicutt. “Now, my Queen, as much as I enjoy your dedication to your work, Colonel Potter has placed Straminsky on phone duty for the night so that you might be able to share our marital bed.”

Maxwell squirmed and grinned up at Charles, his face flushed. “Got anything special for tonight?”

“Some new shampoo for your hair, a couple of candles that Honoria sent in the last package, and the last of that whiskey that Potter got for us for our anniversary.”

Maxwell flushed even more before he looked around quickly, grabbing at Charles’ fatigues and drawing him down in a kiss. “Dress up for me? Like a real date?”

“Of course.” Charles smiled. “And then I can play salon attendant for you.”

“Perfect.” Maxwell grinned. “I want my toes done too now that the nail has healed.”

“Of course.” Charles kissed Maxwell gently, stealing one, two, three soft kisses before he pulled away. “Three hours.”

“Counting every minute?”

“Always.”

Charles walked across the compound, sighing happily as he thought about the evening of delights that he had planned with Maxwell. Simple pleasures to be had, but simple pleasures were the key to sanity in the 4077th. He gathered up some soap, a towel, his bath robe, and Maxwell’s manicure set to file down his nails and tend to his cuticles, before he made his way to the showers. 

He as well into his ablutions when the door opened and Charles jumped at the sudden sight of Captain Simmons. 

“Major Winchester, Corporal Klinger said I might find you here, I have a few questions.”

“Captain Simmons, what on _earth_ could you possibly have to ask me that could not _wait_?” Charles snapped, glaring at the young doctor. God, Maxwell was right. He was baby-faced, fresh out of his residency. He should not even be in the military, by all rights, but here he was. In the showers of the 4077th, looking up at Charles with wide, earnest eyes. 

“Major, I know you don’t like the fact that I’m so young. I’m not nearly as stupid as you think. But I’d like to observe you in surgery if we get new wounded.”

“I’m sorry, Simmons, but my dance card is filled.” Charles sneered as he washed soap off his back, ignoring the way Simmons flushed and kept his eyes determinedly upwards. At least he had the decency to be embarrassed. “Why don’t you speak to Pierce? Or Hunnicutt? Hunnicutt finished his residency and was sent directly here as well.” 

“But you were head of thoracic surgery at Boston General.” Simmons said as he looked Charles in the eye. “I have some new techniques concerning treating penetrating wounds of the heart, and I’d like to watch your own work in surgery to see how you handle that sort of wound.”

“Simmons, _when_ we get more wounded, not if, but _when_ , you will see that in this camp we have, to use Pierce’s favorite phrase, meatball surgery. We do not have time to test new techniques, we stick to what works to keep young men alive, and we do it quickly.” Charles picked up Maxwell’s file and began to file at his nails furiously as he spoke to Simmons. “Why aren’t you with the other surgeons? I’m sure your bunkies would love to corrupt you.”

“Because I wanted to talk to you about medical procedures.”

“Simmons,” Charles stared at the young man. “There is a time and a place for such discussions. For now I am preparing for a _very_ important date and you are keeping me from it, so if you could please run along, _sonny_ , I will be happy to discuss this with you at a later date. Perhaps after the war?”

Simmons blinked at him, owlishly, before he opened his mouth to reply.

Only for the P.A. system to crackle to life. “Would all surgical staff report to O.R., it’s time for the big hospital number!”

Charles sighed and covered his eyes before he reached over and snatched his towel off of its hook. “Well, Simmons, I hope you’re satisfied.”

It didn’t take long for the entirety of the 4077th to be in the compound, unloading wounded from jeeps, helicopters, and the buses that had arrived. When Charles arrived, dressed in his fatigues once more, he immediately set into triage. 

“This guy can wait. X-rays.” Pierce said as he moved around the compound like a bird in flight. “Boy, they should really get a stop sign for this corner.”

“Multiple wounds and chest. Get him in fast!” Charles snapped as he ordered another man into pre-op, Simmons following him like a shadow as he moved to another patient being unloaded from the front end of a jeep. 

“How is he?” Simmons asked as he stared at the man with a knee and shin blown to pieces. 

“Superficial. He can wait.” Charles said simply, looking at Nurse Baker. “Set him down over there, give him something for pain and tighten these dressings.”

Simmons moved after Charles as the man moved to check another patient. “This man's a one.”

“Good Lord…” Simmons whispered as he looked around. “Where do you start?”

“Anywhere, and then you keep going.” Charles said simply as he found another man, this one groaning and whining as a nurse checked his dressings over his chest. “Shrapnel and fractured femur. Has he had morphine?”

Kellye nodded. “Quarter grain, Doctor.”

“Give him another quarter, and he can wait.” Charles moved on without looking back.

Simmons had the nerve to sound personally offended as he stared at Charles. “How loud do they have to scream before they can get in?”

Charles glared at Simmons, “Sonny, it is the ones who cannot scream at all that go first.” He turned full to loom over the younger doctor. “The real thing is never as neat as a diagram, is it?”

Scrubbing up for surgery turned out to be a whole new exercise in difficulty with Simmons practically attached at his hip, and Charles scowled as he tried to gently elbow the younger man aside as he began to soap up his arms. “So about penetrating wounds to the heart-”

“Simmons, what are you on about now?”

“Well, at Tokyo General they felt that pericardiocentesis is the only proper required treatment.” Simmons began, looking up at Charles as the older man scrubbed up to his elbows as always, scowling at the running water. “We’d insert a large needle into the peridardial sac, maintain constant suction, and stop when-” 

“Advancement is stopped when resistance is felt through the tissue, yes I know.” Charles snapped, pulling back in order to dry off his hands. 

“Not quite, sir!” Simmons brightened, smiling up at Charles proudly. “It's when the motion of the myocardium is transmitted to the fingers and dark blood appears. If tamponade reoccurs, then surgery is indicated. Then, with the pericardium open, the blood clots are removed.”

“Sonny, removing blood clots in the manner you advocate would, uh, probably initiate a hemorrhage.” Charles turned, his eyes narrowed as he looked at the younger surgeon. “Therefore I, uh, I wouldn't do it.”

Simmons finished his own scrubbing and dried off his hands with a shrug. “You wouldn't, but I would. It's a risk I prefer to take.” 

Charles froze as he turned to face the surgeon. He knew the pressing time sensitive nature of his job, but he couldn’t help but stare at Simmons. “I _beg_ your pardon?”

“Well…” Simmons looked up at Charles before he cleared his throat. “If… If brisk hemorrhage occurs, you simply locate the wound, hold pressure on it, replace the blood as quickly as possible, and then suture.”

“Captain,” Charles snapped, glaring down at Simmons. “Even a veterinarian knows that that procedure increases the likelihood of ventricular fibrillation.”

“Right.” Simmons nodded. “That's why you administer intravenous procaine or Pronestyl.” He smiled up at Charles, his grin apple-pie and all-American enough to be part of a Norman Rockwell drawing. “Give it a whirl some time, doctor.”

Charles scoffed and stepped into O.R.. “You give it a whirl, sonny.”

* * *

Charles got out of the O.R. and Maxwell gave him a brief kiss, sighing against his mouth as Charles wrapped his arms around him. “I’m sorry our date got canceled.” Maxwell murmured, rocking their bodies gently as if dancing in the O club and not in the scrub room in their blood-covered clothing. “Why don’t we go home, skip the date, and pick up from the goodnight kiss?”

Charles groaned and kissed Maxwell deeply, giving his rear a firm squeeze. “Go clean up, darling, meet me in our tent, and I’ll make sure to give you a… What do you call it? Grand slam finish?”

Maxwell laughed and kissed Charles deeply, his arms draped over Charles’ shoulders. “Alright, I’ll see you in fifteen minutes, handsome.”

“I count the seconds.”

Charles smirked as he left the scrub room, watching Maxwell go to the showers quickly while he made his own way to their tent.

Only to freeze at the sight of Simmons outside the tent, his hands clasped behind his back, bouncing on his heels. 

“Simmons,” Charles growled, staring at the young man. “You had better be a hallucination because if you are _here_ I will be _very_ angry.”

“Do you hallucinate often, Major?” Simmons asked with wide, earnest eyes.

“Simmons, _leave_. _Now_.” Charles clenched his fist, his voice low and dangerous.

“Just wanted to, um…” Simmons stared up at Charles before he grabbed at the man’s face, drawing him close and absolutely abducting a kiss from Charles’ lips. 

Charles froze, grabbing at Simmons’ arms and shoving the younger man away from him. “What are you _doing_ , Simmons?”

“I… Um… I thought you were… Too…” Simmons stuttered, and Charles stared about to say something scathing when a dark hand grabbed at Simmons’ arm.

“Captain Simmons,” Maxwell’s voice snapped, glaring at the other young man. “What are you doing outside _my_ tent? I need to get in to get my robe and negligee.”

“O-oh, I thought this was… Major Winchester’s?” Simmons flushed.

“It is the Winchester tent, Simmons.” Maxwell glared at the younger man. “ _Both_ Winchesters.”

It took a moment, but when Simmons realized what Maxwell was implying, the young man grew pale and looked between Charles and Maxwell before he cleared his throat and pulled away from the two men, practically racing back to the Swamp where Pierce, Hunnicutt and Newsome were all already well on their way to soused. 

Maxwell fixed his eyes towards the Swamp, and when Simmons turned to look back at him, Charles was suddenly pulled down so that he could have his mouth ravaged twice within a five minute period, Maxwell gripping his face firmly, stealing Charles’ breath before they parted, both of their mouths kiss bruised. Charles looked up and saw that Maxwell was glaring at Simmons as the young man finally slipped into the Swamp.

“Darling, I _swear_ I did not expect such attentions from Captain Simmons.” Charles choked out as Maxwell pushed him urgently into their tent. 

When Maxwell managed to close the door, he kissed Charles again, silencing the man’s grovelling, dragging Charles down to the bed, the older man’s body pressed to Maxwell’s own, his legs wrapped around Charles’ waist to cling to him and hold him close. 

“Charles, I don’t want to hear anything but you praising me, calling me beautiful, and _begging_ to give me an orgasm.” Maxwell said bluntly, biting at Charles’ mouth possessively, as if he could bruise and erase the touch of the other doctor. “Got that, Major?”

“I do, Corporal.”

* * *

Captain Simmons flushed as Charles and Maxwell walked into the mess tent the next morning. Maxwell looked bright and more perky than he had in a while, dressed in his favourite red tea dress and black high heels, a sharp contrast to Charles’ rumpled fatigues. 

“Um, Major Winchester! Corporal Klinger!” Simmons waved his hand and the couple hesitated, before Maxwell walked over, confident and standing as tall as he could, even though he was nearly a head shorter than Charles and Simmons both even with his heels. He sat down, setting his tray and coffee mug on the table the young man was sitting at. “Um, I just… I want to say sorry for… Everything yesterday. I thought… I was very stupid.”

“Not stupid,” Maxwell said with a smile. “You’re a very smart doctor, you’ll make a great M*A*S*H* surgeon.” 

“I didn’t know that you two were… Um…”

“Married.” Maxwell said simply, his left hand cupping his own jaw as he rested his elbow on the table. Simmons’ eyes fixed on the very real rock on Maxwell’s finger before he cleared his throat. 

“Yes, married. I um… I’m sorry.” 

Maxwell smiled at Simmons, watching the other young man squirm before he said. “I get it, he’s hard to resist with his accent and his Harvard education and those eyes.” The young Toledoan leaned over and stared at the young surgeon. “You got one free pass, Doc. You try another time and I don’t care that you’re a superior officer, I’ll deck you so hard you’ll be drinking your meals through a straw.” Simmons’ face grew pale and Maxwell smiled as he began to eat his meal. “Glad we had this talk, Captain Simmons, clear the air.”


	55. Nurse Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles feels much too old to be collecting so many young people under his albatross-sized wings.

“Penrose.” It was _miserably_ hot and Charles had not had a proper shower in three days. He had been trying to keep his bottled soda water stock to stretch as long as he could, and between his and Maxwell’s need to at least remain clean shaven, the water was depleting quickly, fouling his mood even more. It did not help that he had been assigned Lieutenant Harris for the entirety of the 40 hour day. 

“Excuse me, Doctor.” Harris asked softly, looking up at him with those wide, earnest eyes.

“What is it now, Harris?” Charles asked, unable to keep his tone civil, not when he had spent the last forty-two hours answering her seemingly endless questions, challenges, and _suggestions_ to adjust his technique. 

“Well, I was wondering why you're using the half-inch Penrose drain.” Harris asked, staring at him with a challenge in her gaze.

“Obviously to provide the necessary wound drainage.” Charles sighed, unwilling to explain himself any further.

“But in that case, wouldn't it be better if we used the one-inch Penrose?”

“Lieutenant Harris, may I have the suture, please?” Charles began to stitch everything closed, resisting the urge to rub at his eyes. When Maxwell noticed, the young man came over, lifting a cloth to dab at his forehead and eyes where sweat had dripped down from the rim of his beanie. “Thank you, darling.” Charles murmured before he continued. “There is an ancient and inviolable medical maxim: too many cooks spoil the vichyssoise.”

“But wouldn't the patient be more comfortable-” Harris began, only to be cut off by an impatient Charles Winchester.

“Lieutenant, let me say how fortunate I am that you are here to guide me.” He glared at the younger woman, growling like an angry bulldog. “My background is limited to four years Harvard Medical School, five years' surgical residency, and the attending staff at Boston General.”

“Doctor, I only thought-” 

Charles felt his patience snap like a tongue depressor attempting to hold up an entire tank. “While you, on the other hand, are the obvious product of innumerable hours of extensive training as a pom-pom girl!”

“Major,” Maxwell sternly said, scolding as he looked up at Charles. “I'm sure the lieutenant was just trying to help. Just like you’ve always been trying to get the nurses to step up and help?”

Charles stared at Lieutenant Harris and sighed as he took in her eyes, brimming with tears as she stubbornly stared at the bleeding gut of the soldier between them. He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment before he spoke up. “Forgive me, Lieutenant Harris. I am tired and unwashed and… Not used to being challenged on my work.” Charles cleared his throat before he looked at the woman. “I am sorry for the words I have spoken in anger.”

“It’s okay, Major.” Harris whispered as she stared down at the soldier. “Do you want me to close for you?”

“I… That would be very helpful.” He stated simply, stepping away from the table so that Maxwell could change his gloves for the next casualty. 

“You know, Major, you could talk across to people and not down at them and get your point across better.” Maxwell said as he put the gloves on, looking up at Charles. 

“I know.” Charles sighed. “I am just weary.”

“We all our, Major.” Maxwell sighed. “We’ll have rest soon.”

* * *

Charles Emerson Winchester had not ever been described as a warm man. Neither had the second iteration of him. Charles Emerson Winchester III had fallen into a much similar category before his veritable banishment to Korea. The average enlisted man certainly didn’t feel comfortable coming up to the Major Winchester and asking him for favors, but anyone who was anyone in the 4077th knew that the Corporal Klinger-soon-to-be-Winchester was the way into a favor for the Major. 

Which was why when Charles found Lieutenant Harris and Captain Simmons, at the motor pool, Harris crying into her sleeve and Simmons looking confused and a bit embarrassed, he desperately wanted to back out of the motor pool and call Maxwell over to help.

“Uh, Major Winchester.” Simmons stood and gave a salute, which Charles ignored in order to scowl at the young man and gently rest his hand on Harris’ shoulder. 

“Ah, Lieutenant Harris, I apologize if my… harshness in the O.R. earlier affected you so.” He looked around and saw the telltale sign of Rizzo’s boots underneath a jeep, the sound of the man snoring enough to reassure him that there were no eavesdroppers beneath the vehicle. 

“It’s not just that.” Harris sniffled. “I… I messed up.”

Charles sighed, a very put-upon noise before he sat down beside the nurse and the young doctor, Harris trapped between the two of them. Charles stared down at her for a moment, with her runny nose and her mascara running down her cheeks, and pulled out his handkerchief, handing it to her. “Here.” He said. “Put that to your nose and blow.”

Harris looked up at him. “I can’t, it’s a very nice-”

“It will wash, Lieutenant, blow.” Charles snapped. “That’s an order.” 

Harris hesitated before she blew her nose and cleared her throat, looking down at her boots. 

“Now. Lieutenant, Captain, might you two inform me of what is going on? Hmm?” Charles looked down at the two. “This is the Army, don’t make me turn it into an order, I do so hate such things.”

They looked so much like scolded children that Charles had to remind himself that they were both so _young_. Simmons was twenty, barely three months younger than Maxwell, and Harris was nineteen. Babes in a time of war. 

“Now, Harris, that you have had a moment to compose yourself, tell me what is going on.”

Harris cleared her throat. “I’ve been studying to be a doctor, you know.”

“I do,” Charles sighed. “You are very knowledgeable.”

“Well, Father Mulcahy was helping me with my studies for my medical aptitude test.” Charles arched a brow at that but said nothing as Harris wrung the handkerchief between her fingers. The young girl sighed and rubbed at her nose with the handkerchief. “Well, we were talking and I talked about how lonely I felt, how I felt that no one here really liked me, and he talked about feeling like an outsider and I… I just felt like he understood.” She flushed. “I hugged him and he… He took it the wrong way. Or the right way, actually, but I hoped that he’d take it the wrong way.”

“And why, pray tell, did you not ask the gallant Captain Simmons for this task?” Charles asked. “Considering that every single O.R. session since both of your arrivals has been like reliving my days in medical school, I would think that you were both quite suited to assisting one another.”

Silence from the two and they looked quietly ashamed.

“Ah.” Charles sighed. “Has it become a case of you two being too alike? Perhaps you both dislike being corrected by someone who believes they are more intelligent than you?”

“Not like you’re much better, Major.” Lieutenant Harris snapped, glaring at Charles. 

“I respect someone who can stand up to their superiors.” Charles said quietly before he looked at the two. “Harris, Simmons, you two are generally difficult to get along with, your peers here are nurses and surgeons and corpsmen who all wish to _forget_ about the blood and the war. Perhaps you two would do best to try and forget as well.” Charles held up his hands. “Harris, I am not saying that your studies are trivial, and Simmons I am not saying that you should not endeavour to keep us all informed of truly life saving procedures, but you two are _continually_ bringing up our work, constantly making us think of that which we desperately are trying to forget.”

The two of them quietly looked down at their hands, like scolded school children, and Charles sighed. “I’m sorry, Major.” Simmons murmured.

“Simmons, I understand why you are trying to assist Lieutenant Harris, considering our own aborted, one-sided love affair, but Harris, why on _earth_ would you attempt such an affair with a priest in the first place?” Charles gave a small smile. “You are hardly the sort of girl who lacks self respect.”

“What does that have to do with it?” Harris asked, surprised as she looked up at Charles.

“Harris, the Father is, ah, spoken for just as surely as I am.” Charles smiled down at her, close-lipped and barely there. “You are hardly the sort of girl that I imagine would like to play… Second fiddle. Mistress. _The Other Woman_?” Charles raised a brow. “Not to mention the sort of woman that people would think of you after attempting to seduce a priest. Simmons and his attempt on my person was one thing, that is an amusing anecdote that the entire camp can get behind, even those who think that I am a sodomist who has bewitched the innocent young Corporal.”

Harris actually giggled at that and Simmons couldn’t help but smile.

“It’s just…Well… Everyone hates me here.” Harris said softly.

“I do not hate you, certainly Major Houlihan does not hate you, Colonel Potter, the four Captains of the Apocalypse, Corporal Klinger certainly doesn’t hate you either.” Charles raised a brow before something seemed to click and his expression softened. “Or is that merely an excuse to keep people at arms length?”

Simmons looked up at Charles, nervously, and Harris looked the opposite direction, down to her boots. 

Charles sighed. He seemed to collect strange wayward children and half-witted enlisted men like a herd of puppies nipping at his heels. “I know what it is like to be alone. And Maxwell as well, I think you might benefit from trying to befriend him, Lieutenant, Captain.”

“O-oh, I couldn’t.” Simmons flushed. “He probably hates me.”

“Not as much as you think, Simmons.” Charles chuckled. “And you, Harris? What is your reasoning?”

“I… I just don’t want to get close to anyone here.”

“Anyone except the company chaplain?” Charles arched a brow. “Consider the Corporal Klinger. A man who dresses like a woman. He is neither corpsman nor nurse but he is still somehow both as well as the company clerk. No one quite knows what to do with him.”

“Except for you, huh, Major Winchester?” Simmons asked with a small smile.

Charles laughed softly. “Except for me, Captain Simmons.” Charles looked at Harris and rested a broad hand on her small shoulder. “And one day, Simmons, Harris, you both will find your own Major Winchesters. They will be brilliantly suited to both of you, loving and adoring of every part of you, every flaw, and every golden beautiful star in your eyes.” 

“But what if I don’t want someone… Someone like what you have with Corporal Klinger?” Harris asked, urgently. “I just… Want someone to hug and kiss and hold hands with, to have the romance of it but not anything… Anything really…” She flushed and cleared her throat. “There doesn’t have to be anything… Physical. Not the way, you know. Just the romance.”

“Ah, I believe Maxwell would call you an…” Charles thought. “What was the phrase he used… An ace in the deck? Don’t need no one else physically, but you like having the emotions.”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“And you, Captain Simmons?”

“Uh, no, no, I’m… I like men.” Simmons said simply, weakly. “And all that that entails. Not the way Lieutenant Harris likes them though, a bit more than that.”

Charles smiled at the two of them and tilted his head. “Simmons, I can understand that, and I can understand you as well, Harris. But both of you are so very young, and I believe that the Army is… Hardly the place to attempt a romance.” He gestured to himself. “I am a very poor example, I have chosen the most wretched place and time on earth to pursue a marriage.”

* * *

Charles dragged himself into the mess tent, hoping for a cup of coffee, only to come across Maxwell smiling and laughing with Harris and Simmons, the three of them sitting midst a sea of books, with notes written down in Harris’ neat handwriting, and Maxwell’s clumsy scrawl. 

“And what is this little study group for?” Charles asked with an exhausted smile, looking at the group. “I thought that Nurse Harris passed her test? Was well on her way to _Doctor_ Harris?”

“Well, we finished up, got her into medical school, and now we were thinking why not give Klinger some extra training to help you out, Major?” Simmons asked with a grin up at Charles. “Hell, he’s almost a better nurse than the actual nurses!”

“Hey, _I_ was a nurse!”

“Oh don’t worry, Harris, he’s just saying that because too much of Winchester has rubbed off on him since you two got here.” Maxwell chuckled, looking at Simmons with a sly grin. “But then again, from what I hear Captain Pierce has _rubbed off_ a bit on him too?”

“You liar!” Simmons flushed bright red and Maxwell grinned even more.

Charles gave a soft laugh before he sat down midst the young people, feeling impossibly old, but also deeply charmed by the three. “Well, if you three stooges aren’t too busy, I can quiz you.” He picked up the notes, translating Maxwell’s handwriting easily. “Ah, the cardio-vascular system, excellent.” He smirked at Maxwell. “You should be an expert where the heart is concerned, after all, you taught me that I truly did have one.”


	56. C*A*V*E*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 4077th goes to a cave for safety.

“Hi, Lovett.” Charles looked up from where he was checking up on patients across the cave from where Maxwell lay, giving the wounded patient his own blood. The cave was enormous, but it still made Charles nervous for a cave- _in_. It reminded him of his family’s mausoleum back in Boston. Certainly his fear was not nearly so strong as Pierce’s, the poor surgeon stuck outside the cave cowering in terror. Charles walked across the gave towards Maxwell and Lovett’s voices. The wind outside screamed across the entrance of the cave, making even the most bravado-soaked soldiers sweat and shiver with fear.

“Where did they get you?” Lovett asked, surprised at the sight of Maxwell’s five o’clock shadow and white nurse’s costume, Charles’ fatigue jacket thrown over Maxwell’s shoulders. 

“Don't talk like that to your blood bank.” Maxwell scolded, even though Charles could hear the smile in his voice echoing around the cave. “How do my corpuscles feel, by the way? Warm, I bet. I'm a warm-blooded guy. My desert heritage.”

Lovett lifted his hand to look at his arm, still blood-deprived before his eyes drifted shut. “How much do I need?”

“Don't worry. Whatever it is, I can spare it.” Maxwell reassured gently. “Besides, there's more where I came from. Father Mulcahy and Major Winchester have the same type blood as me, except one's a little purer and one's a little bluer.”

“How's it going, Klinger?” Charles asked gently as he checked Lovett’s pulse, eyes, and the IV that connected Maxwell to Lovett.

“Major, I was just telling Lovett here that you and me have the same blood type. Ironic, huh?” Maxwell tilted his head and Charles wished he was hidden in the depths of those brown eyes instead of the would-be catacomb of the cave. “We’re a matched set, the Major and I. Right down to the blood.” 

“Certainly we are, darling.” Charles smiled, his lips twitching. “You’ll need a break soon, I’ll go get Father Mulcahy.”

Maxwell smiled down at Lovett. “See, in a few minutes you’ll be just a little bit purer.”

It was a quick process, switching the I.V. for a clean one and placing Father Mulcahy next to the patient in order to connect them via blood transfusion. Once Lovett had drifted off once more, Charles looked at Maxwell and sighed. 

“I have to go update Pierce.”

“I’ll go with you.” Maxwell smiled, gesturing for Charles to lead the way out of the narrow cave. 

Outside, Pierce was cowering alongside Houlihan, who was holding his arm tightly, flinching each time the shellfire strayed just a bit too close. 

“Lovett is stable, for now, but he might be bleeding internally.” Charles said as he stood next to the cave entrance, breathing in the fresh air and staring out at the flashes of shellfire and artillery rounds. The wind was strong enough that Charles was struggling to stand in the face of it, his entire body shaking as he braced himself against the cave entrance, drawing Maxwell close to his side to keep him from flying away in the wind.

“We could try and get him back to the O.R..” Houlihan shouted over the wind, looking up at Pierce. “Open him up again.”

“We might not have a choice. Finding out what is wrong in that cave…” Pierce shuddered. “Forget even trying to get it sterile with how damp it is in there, or privacy. No, there’s no way surgery could be performed in there.”

Charles looked at Maxwell before he took a deep breath. “Pierce, he is your patient, but the journey is a dangerous one. Out of the two of us you have your father.”

“Yeah, and you have the soon to be Corporal Winchester here,” Pierce gestured to Maxwell. More rounds went off nearby, growing more distant, even as the wind picked up. “Being heroic might have worked back when there as a C.I.A. bomb in our back yard, but not this time around.”

“Pierce, what about your father?” Charles asked with a raised brow. “He needs a living son. Maxwell would be well cared for if I died.” Charles gently squeezed his husband’s shoulder, reassuring him quietly. “Maxwell and I can go, perform the surgery, then be back within a few hours, all you would have to do is keep a candle lit for us, or as much as a candle can stay lit in this weather.”

“No way, you two stay here, I’ll go.” Pierce shook his head. “Klinger, get a jeep, Margaret and I can go.”

“If you’re sure, sir.” Maxwell nodded, turning to go uncover, untie and move one of the jeeps. Charles stepped out to watch, making sure that Maxwell remained safe even with such a short distance. He watched as Maxwell removed a swathe of weighted down camouflaged netting, only to curse as it was carried off by the wind. He gave up when the sheet made it halfway down the mountain, refusing to leave the road as he made his way back to the jeep. He untied cabling that held the jeep down then climbed in quickly, throwing the jeep into drive and placing the heavy first aid kit slung over his shoulder onto the passenger seat as Maxwell turned over the engine and drove it up to the cave entrance, turning to look over his shoulder. “Let’s get him loaded up.”

With some assistance from Houlihan, Charles managed to get the patient unhooked from Mulcahy and loaded into the vehicle, bleary, drowsy eyes opening only once or twice as the young man drifted between consciousness and dreams. The wind would be their worst enemy now when they got back to the 4077th’s previous location with their supplies, but if they could make it then they could save Lovett’s life. “Where are you going, Pierce, Houlihan?” Potter called just as Maxwell was about to climb out of the jeep from where he had been fastening down Lovett.

“This patient needs surgery, there’s something bleeding internally, something we missed.” Pierce said as he nervously inched away from the entrance to the cave, looking as if he might blow over in the wind. “Thought Major Houlihan and I would take a long midnight drive.”

“I don’t want to be short my Chief Surgeon and Head Nurse, not when we have too many cases in this damp cave.” Potter shook his head. 

“He’s my patient, Colonel Potter.” Pierce said firmly. “I should go with him.”

“So are three other boys in that cave.” Potter said simply. “Winchester, Klinger, you two good to go and then come back?”

Charles looked out at the road, at the flashes of artillery, and then at Maxwell, who was trembling and stiff as he crouched on the back of the jeep. Charles was about to argue before he realized something, quiet and insidious. They had bugged out, and there was a strong chance that even if they did make it back to the 4077th that they might be overrun by enemy soldiers. If Houlihan, or any of her nurses went, there was no guarantee that Charles, Pierce, or Potter could make for their safety. Charles breathed deeply before he cleared his throat and said, over the screaming wind. “Come along, Maxwell, you drive.”

* * *

“Lovett!” Charles shouted, crawling across the yellow grass, his arms covering his head as a mortar shell sent another shower of dirt over his body. The jeep was on fire nearby, the wind feeding oxygen to the flames and spreading it to the dry grass nearby. Charles had seen Maxwell thrown aside, landing in a pile of dirt near the jeep, but Lovett was more wounded before they began their journey and he needed help. “Lovett! Wake up, wake up!” Charles looked at the man’s body, laying face down, and he rolled him over.

Only to be met with the sight of carnage and bone and blood soaked fabric. 

“… Maxwell.” Charles whispered, stumbling to his feet. He could hear distant gunshots piercing through the sound of the wind rushing past his hears, but he couldn’t care as he turned and stumbled towards the sight of Maxwell’s white nurse’s uniform, Charles’ jacket wrapped around his shoulders as he lay in the dirt road. Charles stumbled over, falling to his knees and crawling to Maxwell’s body, rolling him over as well, only to breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of Maxwell breathing, his face a bit bruised, but otherwise he seemed fine, if concussed. 

They were right in the middle of the conflict, both Chinese and American artillery had an equal chance of hitting them and Charles knew that each second they waited out here there was more of a chance of being killed. 

“Maxwell, Maxie, wake up.” Charles shouted over the wind as he gave Maxwell’s face a smack, the younger man jumping and wheezing as he struggled to consciousness. “Max, come on, come _on_.”

“Where’s the jeep?” Maxwell asked groggily as he looked up, rolling onto his knees, staring at the man with bleary eyes, his hand wavering through the air as he grabbed for Charles’ fatigue collar. 

“The jeep is dead, so is Lovett, let’s go, we have to make it back to the cave.” Charles managed to haul Maxwell to his knees, the two of them stumbling to their feet and racing for the treeline. 

Charles ducked as he heard bullets, being fired, closer now, tearing at the trees surrounding them. Maxwell let out a scream of terror, staring at Charles before the man grabbed Maxwell’s hand and dragged him along, the two of them stumbling and racing through the overgrown forest, trying to avoid rocks and sudden dips of the ground as they descended the mountain. 

“This way, this way up to the cave!” Maxwell shouted, and Charles froze, staring at the younger man. 

“Maxwell, you go.” He whispered, gripping Maxwell’s arms. 

“What?” Maxwell shook his head, he hadn’t heard the words, but he had seen them formed on the man’s lips. “No, you’re coming with me!” Maxwell grabbed at Charles’ own wrist, refusing to let him go. 

“No, no, if we both go they’ll follow us right to the others.” Charles could hear the sound of voices, shouting Chinese, or Korean, and the gunshots were getting closer. “Maxwell, _go_.” Charles shoved Maxwell into the brush, and then turned, running in the opposite direction, down the forested mountain side. 

He was slower than Maxwell. That was mere fact. Maxwell was all light limbs and fast from years of running away from the authorities. He could probably outrun a jeep even wearing high heels. He’d make it to the others, and he’d be safe. Charles would slow him down, even with a concussion, Maxwell would be better off without Charles lagging behind. He could feel his chest burning with pain as he ran and for once he wished he had done calisthenics while Frank Burns had been here, pushing for everyone to get back into shape. Perhaps it was the one good suggestion he ever made in his time as Major at the 4077th. 

Charles ducked as he heard someone shouting in Chinese, then a bullet whizzed past his head. He held his hands up, kneeling down in the brush and panting as he looked up at where the soldiers were running after him. “Don’t shoot!” He shouted, staring at the soldiers as they came, illuminated by flashlights sweeping over the surroundings, trying to find others. 

He didn’t understand what was being shouted at him, he couldn’t hear anything other than the ringing in his ears, triggered by the earlier mortar fire and his own fear. He didn’t move except for when his hands were tied in front of him. One of the soldiers grabbed at his collar, ripped out the caduceus pin, showing it to the other soldiers. They ripped out his pins and pocketed them before one soldier held up a gun for Charles to gaze down, knowing that it would be the last sight he would see. 

Charles felt his heart pounding and his mouth was dry with a fear that spread down his throat, clutching his lungs painfully tightly. He didn’t want to die. He was a coward, but he didn’t think that that was a universal sign of such behavior. He didn’t want to die because no one, no matter how brave, truly wanted to die.

He struggled through his vast vocabulary for some sort of last word before one bolted across his mind, quick as a minnow flashing silver in a pond. “Uisa!” He shouted, his eyes wide as he stared up at the men surrounding him. “Uisa! Doctor! I’m a doctor! Uisa!”

Silence.

And then the gun was moved away from his face and Charles breathed deeply, staring at the Chinese and North Korean soldiers surrounding him. “Uisa,” He whispered again, like a prayer for deliverance.

* * *

They were in the hollowed out remnants of the 4077th. Charles had walked the wooden floors of the O.R. a thousand times before and yet this time it was different. The conditions were worse than they had ever been, and without proper medical equipment the shell of the O.R. and the post-op was little more than a metal shelter with a red cross on the roof. The wind had long ago torn off the door to what had once been the reception area where Maxwell was clerk, and the wind ripped through the hallway and post-op like it wanted to remove every living thing from within.

Charles worked with supplies stolen from the 4077th’s supply trucks, something that had made him laugh slightly hysterically when he saw that their own penicillin, their own curare and morphine were all scattered midst supplies labeled in Chinese and Korean, stacked up along the walls. 

“I cannot perform this surgery alone!” Charles shouted as he stared at the man that was bleeding out, a chest wound. Heart and lungs, his specialty even though they didn’t know it. “I need a nurse!” He struggled through the paltry Korean words he had learned as he looked up at the commanding officer that stood over him, a loyal soldier aiming a weapon at Charles steadily. “Ganhosa! Ganhosa, a nurse!” He desperately tried to think of something, anything that might make him understood. 

The commanding officer stared before he shouted something in Korean.

Charles waited in the following silence, his heart pounding loud enough to drown out the wind outside.

He stiffened then froze when he heard a click of high heels behind him, turning slowly to look over his shoulder. He prayed, for the first time, that it was a working girl. Some girl that they had picked up from the local area, an untrained nurse would be better than - 

“Charles!” Maxwell gasped as he stared at Charles, his hands shaking as he looked at the man kneeling on the ground. 

The commanding officer gave a cruel laugh and gestured to Maxwell, dressed in his white nurse’s uniform and red high heels. “Ganhosa.”


	57. They Call the Wind Korea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm rages outside, while Maxwell and Charles struggle for their lives inside.

Charles nearly choked on his own breath as Maxwell was shoved into what was left of the post-op, Charles looking down at the patients that they had. 

“Major,” Maxwell whispered, his knees shaking as they looked at the bodies. “What do we do?”

“Don’t think about it.” Charles said simply. “This man is the worst, everyone else can wait.” Charles breathed deeply as he looked at the man. “He’s got a severe chest wound, the shrapnel is probably in the aorta.”

“That’s… That’s the big one, isn’t it?” Maxwell asked, shakily staring at the tools around them. “Sir, we have a dozen other men here and it’s just the two of us.”

“I know, but we can’t let them die.” Charles whispered harshly, his voice choked. “We let them die, and we’ll be next, so just go to the supplies and find their surgical tools.”

Maxwell stared at Charles and then nodded, standing on deer-wobbly legs to stumble to the supplies. He began to tear everything apart, finding the surgical supplies. He couldn’t find a surgical tray, so he rummaged until he found a mess tent tray and a bottle of methyl alcohol. Charles watched the younger man and when Maxwell came back, the tray rattling as he placed it down beside the wounded man, Charles couldn’t help but stare at his husband.

“I love you, Max.” Charles whispered, staring into those dark eyes. “This will all be alright.”

“I know it will, Charles.” Maxwell whispered back with a weak smile. “Just… Do what you do best.”

* * *

Two chest wounds, a tracheotomy, a chest tube, and a mess of shrapnel removed from several bodies later, Charles’ hands were numb and shaking as they wrapped around Maxwell, drawing the younger man close. 

They were in Potter’s office, the echoing, empty room freezing cold, with no blankets or extra clothing given to the two as they recovered from the harrowing session of combined triage, O.R. and post-op duties. The storm outside raged on, rattling the walls and rooftop, threatening to liberate the two prisoners from both the office and their own bodies with the deep chill that had set in.

“How long do you think it will take before they…” Maxwell laid his head on Charles’ shoulder. “Before they get bored of us. Or don’t need us anymore?”

Charles listened to the shelling. It had stopped for so briefly hours ago that he might have dreamt the silence while he was wrist deep in a man’s stomach. “I don’t know.” Charles confessed quietly, his arms wrapped tighter around Maxwell. 

The door to Potter’s office swung open and Charles stood, placing himself quickly between Maxwell, their bodies shivering with cold. A man stood bearing a tray of cabbage and rice, a simple meal but a meal nonetheless. Behind him was the commanding officer, Choi as they had picked up after some struggle with trying to understand his orders. From what Charles could tell from his insignias he was a Colonel, and from the scars on his face, his career had likely been the military. He spoke to the soldier in clipped Korean, and the man looked at the two. 

“State your Names, Ranks, and Serial Numbers.” He spoke in perfect English, his accent still strong but his tone was impartial.

“Doctor Charles Emerson Winchester III, Major, 31311042.” Charles supplied without argument.

“Maxwell Q. Klinger, Corporal, 35010734.” Maxwell added, following his husband’s lead. 

He clutched at Charles’ sleeve and when the man approached them and placed the tray on the floor. “I am Major Yi, this is Colonel Choi.” The man held out his hand. “Your dogtags, if you please, merely to confirm.” Charles hesitated before he removed his dogtags, holding them out to the man. Maxwell followed suit, only to freeze when his dogtags glinted in the air. “What is this?” The man held up Maxwell’s engagement ring and wedding ring, looped onto the flimsy chain next to his dogtags. “A woman’s ring.” He held it out to Maxwell. “Remove it from your identification.”

Maxwell obeyed, and out of instinct nearly slid it back onto his hand before he palmed the gold and diamond. Charles had not removed his own ring, but now… Now he wished that he had. Then it would have made their captors think it was merely an American tradition, rather than single out Maxwell’s own peculiarity. 

“It is your ring, is it not?” Major Yi asked. 

“Y-yes, it’s mine.”

“Then why do you not wear it?”

Maxwell hesitated before he slid the ring on, and Charles quietly realized that perhaps it was a mercy. Maxwell had caught the eye of many a general. Be it for physical desire, or the desire to have a story about the most famous transvestite corpsman in the entire army. They were amused by him, even those who saw him as subhuman, as a a performing monkey dressed in nylons and heels, they were amused by Maxwell Klinger. 

Perhaps this Colonel was no different. Perhaps it would be Maxwell’s saving grace.

The Colonel and Major spoke in Korean, clearly realizing that while Charles could speak one or two words, he was not literate in their language. Maxwell gripped at Charles’ arm tightly, whispering to the man. “Major, what are they going to do to us?”

“I don’t know.” Charles whispered back. “Whatever it is, we cooperate.”

There is a laugh from the two Koreans and Charles flinches, Maxwell hiding behind him slightly as he looks up at the two men through his lashes, demure and soft and attempting to be non-threatening only to come off as _coy_. “Who is your husband, Corporal?” Major Yi asks, with a smirk at the young man. He’s the same height as Maxwell in heels, and when he reaches out he grasps at Maxwell’s jaw, turning his head this way and that. “What man might wish to marry such a face?”

“H-husband? Well, I… I…” Maxwell struggles to find the words, a lie, anything. 

“Perhaps whoever gave you that ring did so with the intention of not seeing your face.” A hand snatched at Maxwell’s skirt, dragging it up, and Maxwell flinched back, only for Charles to put himself between the two men. 

“Enough!” He snapped, glaring down at Major Yi, at Colonel Choi who was watching with the sadistic glee of a seasoned voyeur to unsavory behaviour. “We are prisoners of war, but we still can be expected to be treated with dignity.”

“There is no dignity to be seen here.” Major Yi said simply. “In a man who dresses as a woman, and another man who defends him.”

“We have given you our names, ranks, and serial numbers, we are not required to give you anything else, information or otherwise.” Charles tried to sound braver than he felt, his heart pounding in his ears. 

Major Yi stared at him for a long, horrible moment, the wind outside screaming through the building like a wraith come to sever men’s souls from their bodies. When the Korean officer punched Charles in his stomach, causing him to double down, all he could hear was Maxwell shouting “Charles” and following him down to the ground, wrapping his arms protectively around the doctor. 

“Ah… I see.” Yi said simply, turning to his superior. He gestured to the two men on the ground, Charles still panting for breath through the pain, and Maxwell cupping his face with a cold, shaky hand.

Colonel Choi gave a small chuckle, speaking to Major Yi, and Charles tried not to think of what their discussion was about. He had never bothered to learn Korean, but now he wished he had, even if his vocabulary was too small to translate exactly what the two men had planned for him and Maxwell. 

“Doctor Winchester,” Major Yi called out and Charles panted as he looked up at the man, blinking through the pain. “The Colonel would like your wife’s company for the night.”

Maxwell shrank behind Charles, his eyes wide as he shook his head, Charles’ own arm reached back to shield the young man. 

“The Colonel will not ask again.” Yi’s voice was steely cold, and Maxwell scrambled back into the furthest corner he could go. 

A barked order and several soldiers arrive inside what was once Potter’s office and was now a makeshift prison cell for the two Americans. Charles stepped backwards, blocking off access to the corner that Maxwell had hidden himself in, the surgeon’s bulk nearly eclipsing Maxwell entirely. Colonel Choi gestured to the two and gave an order and immediately Charles was grabbed. He was stronger than he had once been, months of military living had given him some muscle that he had lacked before, but even that could not compete with the strength of four trained soldiers dragging him away from Maxwell. 

“Fuck off!” Maxwell shouted, kicking and snarling as he was dragged along the floor, his high heels scraping against the wood as he tried to dig in, screaming and fighting and wrenching at his limbs. Charles growled and tried to lunge forward, but a blade was drawn and placed over Charles’ neck, right along his jugular, and Charles froze. 

“Major Winchester, please, sit, eat, rest, we are expecting more wounded soon.” Major Yi said simply as Maxwell was dragged out of the room, screaming and struggling, trying to grab at anything that might keep him from being hauled out of the room. “Your… _wife_ will be well taken care of.”

“He’s my nurse,” Charles said quickly, shouting half the words into the freezing cold ground. “I cannot operate without him, I cannot treat wounded without a nurse!”

“We will make sure to provide you with one if the Corporal proves uncooperative. I’m _sure_ that he will, however, be quite accomodating.”

“Charles! _Charles_!” Maxwell’s voice rose in terror, further away now, and Charles felt his heart pounding in terror at the very thought of him being at the mercy of their captors. 

“Do not hurt him,” Charles shouted as Yi left the room. “Please, I will do anything if you do not hurt him!”

* * *

Maxwell was alive, but his hands shook and he was crying as he knelt alongside Charles, working on a man with a neck and shoulder full of shrapnel. His face was bruised, and his knuckles of his left hand had split, but otherwise the Corporal seemed to be in perfect health. When Charles had asked him, quietly, over a chest wound, what had happened, if he was alright, Maxwell had whispered, “Nothing happened. They just laughed at me.” And the words tasted a lie even as Maxwell spoke them.

The wind storm had stopped, at the very least, but they were still captive, still trapped within the hollowed out shell of the 4077th’s surgery and post-op. Every time Colonel Choi’s footsteps approached, steady and even and slow, inevitable, Maxwell would stiffen, breathing deeply as his hands shook and he tried to keep everything in order, but they were operating with half of the tools and supplies they would normally have and the pressure of their captors keeping a stern eye on them made the fear even worse. 

Charles kept his hands steady through sheer force of will. 

“Doctor, no pulse.” Maxwell breathed, staring at Charles in sheer terror.

“No pulse? What do you mean no pulse?”

“It was there and now it’s gone!” Maxwell’s hands were shaking, his entire body frozen in horror. 

“No.” Charles stared at the man’s neck, where there was still so much shrapnel to be removed, at the vial of blood that had been hooked up to the enemy soldier, American Type B Neg, and then at Maxwell. “No, no, he’s not going to die!” 

Too much rode on this one life for it to be lost now. 

“Bag, I need a bag.”

“We don’t _have_ one!” Maxwell snapped, racing across the room as soldiers began to filter in, scrambling through the supplies. “No ambu bags.”

“Okay, then you breathe air into his lungs, Maxwell, I’m going to try and massage the heart through his chest.”

“You’ll break his ribs!”

“If he lives then it won’t matter.” Charles snapped as Maxwell knelt down and began to breathe into the young man’s mouth, pinching the soldier’s nose shut as he did so. Charles placed his hands over the young man’s chest and began to press, hard and steady, _one-two-three-one-two-three_ , over and over. “Breathe!” _One-two-three_. “Breathe!” _One-two-three_. “Breathe!”

 _One-two-three_. 

“No pulse still.”

“Breathe!”

 _One-two-three_. 

“Breathe!”

 _One-two-three_. 

“Doctor…”

“No!” Charles shouted. “He’s not dead!”

 _One-two-three_. 

_One-two-three_. 

_One-two-_

“Doctor.” Major Yi’s voice was cold and Charles slowly stopped his ministrations to the dead soldier, staring down at the young man’s face. “He is dead.”

Charles looked up at the soldiers surrounding him and Maxwell, his voice weak in a way he had never heard it before. He had never felt helpless before. “Major Yi, please. There was nothing I could do.”

“I’m sure if he was an American G.I. that you would have worked harder.” 

“No, please, I swear, I did everything I could!”

“Perhaps you need a new assistant, one with less shaky hands.” Major Yi gave a quick order and Maxwell was dragged up to his feet, Charles stumbling upwards as well.

“No, don’t take him!” 

A rifle was struck across Charles’ face and he fell into darkness among the wounded that he had spent so much time trying to help. 

Even in his dreams he could hear Maxwell crying out for him.


	58. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You cannot die in your own dreams. But those you love can.

_Charles let out a nervous, shuddering breath as he stared at the operating theater in Boston General. He opened his top hat and smiled to his audience, the members of the 4077th seated and waiting quietly, looking down towards the table where Charles’ performing partner was laying on the table, covered by a white sheet. Charles turned to his audience and took a bow, placing the top hat upon his head as he straightened. He gripped the sheet on the table and ripped it away, watching as his partner sat upright on the operating table._

_Maxwell smiled up at him, his ears dripping with diamonds, a high necked choker of matching cut gems wrapped around his throat. When he stood the silvery silk of his dress swirled about his legs, his matching silver shoes tied with satin ribbons about his ankles, like Cinderella arriving at the ball for her prince._

_The crowd applauded the two of them and Charles listened as a waltz began to play, soft and quiet, the slow turns giving Charles the chance to stare into Maxwell’s dark eyes, to take in the stars that glittered there only for him. The violins filled the air softly alongside the woodwinds, and soon the violins began to pick up pace. Maxwell threw his head back and laughed, but no sound came from his lips as they began to speed up, the crescendo of music making Charles’ heart pound as he guided Maxwell through the dance._

_Charles guided Maxwell to the operating table, laying his husband back upon the unyielding metal lovingly. He gave a soft kiss to those perfect lips, stroked his fingers over Maxwell’s shaven jaw before he straightened and adjusted his cufflinks, looking at the audience, expecting applause._

_Only to be met with the gazes of older men, quiet and solemn faces gazing at him with a familiar disappointment. He knew these men, knew who they were, what they were here for, and immediately one of his hands rested upon Maxwell’s, as if that one touch might protect Maxwell from the men that surrounded them. Dr. Darmount held out a scalpel to Charles, the silver gleaming and glittering, matching Maxwell’s beautiful gown. Charles slapped the doctor’s hand away, cutting his own palm as the instrument went skittering across the ground. Dr. Chilton held out his own implement of choice, a needle filled with a sickly yellow fluid, he aimed it to Maxwell’s arm, but Charles gripped the man’s wrist and with every ounce of strength he had to force the man away._

_White coats framed the tuxedos of the men surrounding the table and Charles felt suffocated, blinded by the white. When he finally opened his mouth and gave a roar, no sound came out, even though his lungs and throat burned with the power of the scream._

_He panted and hunched over Maxwell, protectively trying to shield him from the other doctors. He looked at Maxwell’s face, cupping his cheek as the young man lay there with his eyes closed, as if he was asleep. Charles breathed a sigh of relief at the sight, cradled Maxwell’s face with his hand, stroking his thumb over Maxwell’s cheek, his lips softly. When Maxwell’s eyes opened, the stars were gone from his gaze, his eyes dull and distant, as if he was miles away from Charles. Charles shook his husband gently, attempting to wake him, to draw him out of this strange, absent gaze._

_He froze when blood welled up at the corners of Maxwell’s eyes, spilling slowly down his face as his head fell to the side limply. Charles stumbled backwards, looking at his hands only to freeze, his mouth open at the sight of the ice pick gripped in his hand. He tossed the tool aside and stood over Maxwell, shaking him, trying to awaken him, trying to wipe away the blood, only for more to well up as Maxwell lay limply in his arms._

_The music had stopped, silence was all that filled the air now. And then there was breathing, ragged and shaking, a sound that Charles was intimately familiar with. He stared down at Maxwell, at the way the man’s chest heaved under satin, his throat trembling with his breaths, glittering diamonds shivering with each labored, frantic breath._

_Charles was intimately familiar with the death rattle. He had held the hand of many dying men in their final moments ever since he got to Korea. None of those deaths made the breath rip from his lungs in a scream that he still couldn’t hear, nothing but the sound of Maxwell’s heart beating, slower, slower._

_And then pure silence._

Charles gasped, inhaling deeply as he began to catalog every pain and agony that pulsed through his body. His hands were freezing cold, his head was pounding, and his right arm was numb from where he had laid on it for what must have been hours. He grunted and rolled onto his elbows, struggling to get upright, choking on his own spit for a moment before he looked up, dizziness and pain making the world blurry and wobbling on its axis. 

He could hear shouting, and gunfire, and when he looked around he saw that the only people there were the wounded and dead he had been tending to.

“Maxwell?” He called out, struggling to his feet. There was no sign of the Corporal anywhere and Charles felt his heart stop before it pounded double time. He raced to the doors of the post-op, and blinked when he found them unlocked. Blocked by piles of weapons and supplies, but unlocked. Charles took a few steps back and slammed his shoulder into the door, grunting at the impact on his arm that was now coming back with a pins and needles sensation. “Max!” He shouted through the door, slamming his body into it again, then again. 

When the flimsy wood finally gave, Charles stumbled through the piles of various supplies, uncaring for anything but whether or not he could find Maxwell. What was once Potter’s office was now empty, save a few drops of blood on the floor and deep gouges where Maxwell’s heels had dug in before. Charles breathed deeply before he looked down, following the gouges out the door, through what was once the clerk’s office, out into the compound. 

Where a battle had taken place and was moving to the North. The compound was empty, clearly the North Koreans had not had time to gather their supplies, their wounded. Their vehicles were gone, and there was nothing left outside except the bold red and blue of the North Korean flag, flying from where once the American flag had been.

And beneath the flag was a body.

“Max!” Charles shouted, racing across the compound, stumbling the last few feet, grabbing at Maxwell’s shoulders and rolling him onto his back. He was breathing, alive, but so very cold, and his breaths were so faint. Pneumonia, so much scarring in his lungs.

Charles pinched Maxwell’s nose and leaned down to fill his lungs, painfully full, pulling back to let the air slowly out of Maxwell’s lungs, then back in to breathe another long breath, doing the work of am ambubag, giving his breath to his husband just as he had sworn to give everything else. 

“Come on, Max, darling, my love, you have to _live_.” Charles whispered. “Don’t stop breathing. Please. Please, just keep breathing for me.”

Another breath. 

“ _Please_ , Maxwell.”

_Maxwell was running, his lungs burning with the pain as he raced along Monroe Street, the road empty of all vehicles except for one._

_He could see Charles in the back of the sleek black car, his profile visible in the rear windshield even though the glass was tinted so dark, and there were filmy curtains pulled back on either side. It was the beginning of summer, the sun baking the asphalt so hot that it made the soles of his shoes melt, sticking to the ground. He reached down and threw aside the ruined shoes. He could buy more shoes. His stocking clad feet pounded on the ground. He couldn’t buy another Charles._

_He turned the corner of Albion Street and it was suddenly autumn, the crisp air stinging at his lungs, his asphalt burned feet cooling as he kept running. When he stepped into a puddle of water, soaking through the hem of his skirt and his stockings he ignored it all, continuing to run, to race after the car as it drove at a truly sedate pace, but just too fast for Maxwell, his lungs stuttering and burning, nearly giving out as his heart pounded double time to keep up with him._

_A turn onto Blaine Avenue and Charles was becoming more distant, the car was speeding up and snow slushed through the streets, turning the road grey and Maxwell’s toes numb as he ran, his skirt dragging through snow, soaking through. He threw the fabric aside, left in his blouse and full body slip and stockings as he ran. Maxwell wanted to scream but he had no more air in his lungs for sound, only for the heavy, laborious breaths that burst past his lips. He couldn’t lose Charles. He had lost his family, they had moved to Montana, he had lost Laverne, she had left him when he had confessed about his love for Charles. She had married his best friend, so he didn’t even have Gus. All he had was Charles._

_All he needed was Charles._

_Delaware Avenue was next and it was suddenly spring and Charles didn’t deserve to die in the spring, when things were bright and the sun was warm and beautiful. Charles, who was still in the back of the car, but now Maxwell was close enough that he could see Charles’ eyes, bright blue even through the tinted window, staring blankly at Maxwell with that sad, painful gaze that he got when he thought hurtful thoughts about his own self worth. Maxwell tried to call his name, tried to sob for him to stop, to stop the car, to stay with him._

_They turned onto Auburn Avenue and Maxwell felt his breath becoming shorter as he ran, his legs slower, his entire body shaking as he ran. His blouse slid off of his body, tattered and soaked in sweat from the sudden summer heat. Maxwell’s feet pounded on the ground, cuts and blood leaving his footprints behind in the asphalt._

_The car sped up and Maxwell wanted to cry, wanted to scream as he watched it pull away, growing more and more distant. He had to follow it, he had to, he could make it, he could save Charles. And if he couldn’t save him then he could at least say a proper goodbye._

_Spring. Summer. Winter. Fall. Maxwell ran through them all several times over, years passing as he tried to catch up to the car, watching it through the seemingly endless seasons passing within minutes. He could catch him, he could, he just had to keep up, he could do that no matter the pain in his feet, in his lungs, in his heart._

_The car stopped and Maxwell could have laughed in relief as he stepped onto green summer grass._

_Only to freeze when the hearse opened it’s back door and a pure white coffin, white like surgical scrubs, like Charles’ white lab coat, white like the funeral attire that Korean families wore when a death stole their loved ones from them, was pulled from the car. Maxwell froze as he stood in the Woodlawn Cemetery, among the enormous testaments to the dead that he and Laverne had hidden behind as children, holding ill gotten gains and watching funerals quietly._

_There was Hawkeye, Trapper, BJ, and Frank, Colonel Potter and Colonel Blake, all of them holding Charles’ coffin, carrying him from the hearse, across the green lawn to an open grave. Maxwell stood frozen in black velvet, his veil over his face, his black heels perfectly cared for, his black gloves holding a white handkerchief embroidered with CEWIII. This was not real. It couldn’t be. Charles was still so young. They still had so much time. They hadn’t had enough time together. Charles had promised him forever._

_Maxwell stared at the coffin being lowered, and where he couldn’t breathe before from running, from chasing after his husband, now he couldn’t breathe for a different reason._

_He couldn’t hear his own sobs, they were soundless, but they tore through his lungs, through his throat, shaking his entire body with the power of his sobs and screams. The dirt was beginning to cover Charles’ coffin and Maxwell stared at the monument that rose from the ground behind the open grave, enormous and elaborate as every other marker in the Cemetery. He couldn’t stop himself from falling to his knees, his breathing caught, unable to be drawn in, gasping silently as he stared at the grave being slowly filled, inch by inch._

“Maxwell!” Charles shouted as Maxwell gasped, wheezing and arching, writhing away from Charles’ hands as he stared at the young man. “Maxwell, thank god!” Charles clutched Maxwell close and the younger man clung to him, sobbing and breathless as he attempted to form words, unable to even find the breath for that. They knelt in the empty compound, Charles pressed his face to Maxwell’s hair, kissing at his temple, at his forehead, his cheeks until their lips found one another and Maxwell kissed him back this time, firmly and desperately.

They parted when they heard vehicles approaching, and Charles stood, Maxwell held like a bride in his arms, his tattered white nurse’s uniform stained with blood and dirt and filth. 

“Identify yourself!” An American voice called and Charles felt _relief_ like he had never felt before.

“Doctor Charles Emerson Winchester III, Major, 31311042.” Charles shouted. “This is Maxwell Q. Klinger, Corporal, 35010734. He needs treatment, I need help!” Charles stumbled forward, clutching at Maxwell. “Please, get us to our M*A*S*H*! 4077, our commanding officer is Colonel Potter!”


	59. Heal Thyself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Maxwell are returned to the 4077th. And the 4077th returns to its previous encampment.

Charles couldn’t perform Maxwell’s examination, even though he desperately wanted to.

It was the worst moment of his life, watching the 4077th return to it’s previously hollowed compound. North Korean wounded were placed on beds in post-op, the Swamp was returned to its previous position, and Charles and Maxwell’s tent was erected just as it had always been, with the Klinger Collection decorating it, and Charles’ footlocker surprisingly un-rummaged. 

Doctor Newsome was the one who did the examination. Charles was grateful for it. Pierce, Hunnicutt, Potter, and Simmons were all sitting in the Swamp, keeping Charles company as the man waited for Maxwell to be returned to their tent so that he could go as well. 

“What happened?” Potter asked quietly, staring at Charles. 

“I already gave my report.” Charles whispered, his voice hoarse. 

“What would you expect Newsome to tell us?”

Charles stared at his teacup full of gin and knocked the drink back. “The truth?” He fingered at the rim of the cup. “I don’t know.”

“What?”

“They knocked me unconscious after I couldn’t save one of their men. I cannot recall how long I was out. When I woke, Maxwell was outside and the North Koreans were gone.” Charles rubbed at his mouth and stood, pacing the small tent. “I couldn’t think of the possibilities. But he… The Korean word for a nurse is Ganhosa. I asked for a nurse and I thought that they’d bring me some working girl. I told Maxwell to run and I thought he had made it… And then… And then he was…” Charles covered his face. “I did my best, I _swear_ I tried to protect him.”

“No one thinks you didn’t, son.” Potter sighed. “We just… Were hoping we could be prepared.”

The door to the Swamp opened and Newsome came in, looking haggard and exhausted. “Well. He’s resting in his tent. I gave him a shot so that he can sleep.” The new surgeon sighed and sat down, holding out his hand. “Anyone got a drink for me?” Hunnicutt poured the man a drink and Newsome sipped at the bathtub gin before he sighed and cleared his throat. “Well, do you want the good news or the bad news?”

Charles slowly sat down. “Good news.”

“The good news that he doesn’t seem to remember half of what happened.” Newsome said simply. “That does not mean that there isn’t trauma, it could come rushing back, and that’s something to keep an eye on.”

“We’ll keep Major Freedman’s meter running.” Potter said as he shook his head. “Alright, bad news now.”

“He had cuts across his entire body, some of them were infected, so we’re going to need to keep him on antibiotics for a bit. Too measured to be nail scratches, so probably a knife was used.” Newsome sat back, trying to give his assessment in as detached a manner as possible. “Two broken ribs, but thankfully no puncturing in the lungs. He had three broken fingers, but thankfully those will heal. Looked like his hand was stomped on, I’m surprised the damage is as small as it is.” Newsome cleared his throat. “Now for the part that I’ll add or keep from his file, depending on your orders, Colonel.”

Potter braced himself, and Charles stood, pacing the Swamp slowly. “Tell us first, Steve.” 

“He was molested by the enemy troops. I performed an examination and asked the Corporal a few questions. He confessed to attempting to bargain for the lives of both himself and Major Winchester with the enemy brass, but he won’t tell me the extent to which he was harmed. No traces of semen was found on his person, so we can assume that, unless he tells us otherwise, there was no penetrative assault.”

Charles left the Swamp without any farewells to the others, crossing the compound to his own tent. No one followed him, and he was sure Newsome was continuing his report, but he couldn’t stand another second of listening to his husband’s wounds, his suffering. Maxwell was asleep on the bed, and Charles gently checked him over, lifting his thin cotton nightgown. Newsome had at least helped the young Corporal to change into his comfortable clothing, but he couldn’t help but feel as if Maxwell had suffered enough violations without Newsome going through his things. 

Dark eyes blearily opened as Charles looked over the bandages wrapped around Maxwell’s stomach, thighs, and arms, dark fingers reaching down to grasp at Charles’ wrist, holding onto the joint for a moment before thin fingers found Charles’ own fingers, lacing them together. Charles lifted Maxwell’s hands to his lips, kissing at the skin gently before he Maxwell’s eyes drifted closed again. No words were needed, and even if Maxwell had spoken, Charles was sure that he couldn’t form the proper words that might reassure the young man.

Charles watched Maxwell for a few moments before he stood, breathing deeply as he walked into the compound, his hands shoved into his pockets. 

“Think you can handle this, Winchester?” Potter’s voice called softly, and Charles turned, seeing the Colonel approaching from the direction of the Swamp. Newsome had clearly finished giving his assessment. “Wouldn’t blame you if you asked for a transfer.”

Charles shook his head. “I am needed here.” He said simply. “Maxwell might need a transfer, we can ask him when he is conscious, but I will not leave the 4077th.”

“Good man,” Potter nodded. “You and the missus take a week, rest up, recover, and then we’ll put you back on regular duty.”

* * *

It was during a wind storm, smaller than the one that had rattled his entire body, down to his soul, that Charles woke from a fitful sleep. Maxwell had been given a sedative to help him sleep earlier, after a vicious day of clerk duties and a full post-op and exhaustion. The wind had rattled the tent softly at first, and then more violently as the night went on. Charles stood, breathing deeply and stumbling from the tent out into the compound. 

For a moment, he felt as if the compound was as empty as it had been that terrifying night that he and Maxwell had found themselves prisoners there. Familiar walls and structures left in place, familiar tracks left in the mud and dirt. Charles walked in the steps of the other members of the 4077th in the middle of the night and wondered if perhaps he could walk right into their lives. Out of his boots and into theirs. 

Pierce rolled over in his bed and froze when he saw Charles wandering in the darkness. Charles held up a hand, waving briefly at the other surgeon before he turned and went back towards the post-op ward. It wasn’t his shift, Newsome was quietly sitting at the desk, but Charles wanted to check on the patients. He stopped at every bed, the patients were all fast asleep as he silently read their charts, cataloguing the various pains they suffered. 

“Major?” Newsome approached Charles as Charles stared at a patient that had lost a leg, his hands shaking as he stared at the young man. “Major Winchester?” Newsome placed a hand on Charles’ shoulder and the man jumped, turning to look at Newsome before he breathed deeply, placing the chart down. 

“Captain Newsome, is there anything I can assist with?” Charles asked.

“Well, I got a drink here in my pocket if you want a nightcap?” Newsome pulled a silver flask from his lab coat and Charles stared at it before he shook his head, breathing deeply.

“I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I need it.” Charles gave a weak laugh. “That’s a perfect reason to not take it.”

“Look, all I know is what I saw in the examinations when I looked over you and Klinger.” Newsome led Charles away from patients, gently resting his hand upon Charles’ shoulder. “I mean, sure I specialized in Geisha girls, but I worked the Pusan Perimeter before I got moved to Tokyo. I have some experience with scary things.”

They hid behind the curtain dividing post-op from the hallway, and Charles couldn’t help but reach up to pull the curtain back. If it remained up then he would only see the visions of the hollowed out 4077th that he had been imprisoned in. 

“What’s up, Winchester? Lay it on me.”

Charles couldn’t think of the words at first before he whispered. “I can’t… I close my eyes and I see this entire place as it was when it was bugged out. When Maxwell and I were locked in Colonel Potter’s office. I can’t sleep. When I sleep, I dream.” Charles stared at Newsome, silent and exhausted before he gave a weak laugh. “Dreams that I thought I had long stopped having.”

“This place brings out the worst in people.” Newsome nodded. “But sometimes the best too.”

“Sometimes.” Charles agreed quietly, staring into the post-op ward, at sleeping men on proper beds, with I.V.s and carefully monitored charts. “Sometimes it just breaks them even more.”

“You were already broken, then?”

Charles shook his head and laughed. “I misspoke. The exhaustion.”

Newsome obviously didn’t buy it. “If you say so, Major.” He took a drink from his flask and gestured. “Why don’t you go back to bed, Major? I have this shift covered.”

Charles sighed and nodded wearily before he stepped into the compound.

Only for the P.A. to crackle on. “You heard it here folks, there’s wounded incoming, everyone get in position for the welcoming committee!”

Charles went to the scrub room, and halfway through his scrub the other surgeons arrived, all of them except Newsome startling at the sight of Charles already covered in soap and dressed in his white surgical scrubs. He breathed deeply, nodding to Pierce and Hunnicutt as Potter gave him a levelling stare.

“You’re good to operate, Winchester?”

“I’m fine.” Charles shook his head. “I can keep up.”

“Alright, if you’re sure.” Potter waited until Charles was through the door, thinking the man didn’t hear him say to Pierce and Hunnicutt and Newsome, “Keep an eye on the man, if he wavers, step in.”

The wind had given way to rain, thunder and lightning filling the air as Charles got to work on the first patient. He forced his hands not to shake, even as sweat immediately formed on his forehead. He had been dragged through this room. Maxwell had been kept here before Charles had demanded a nurse, his own words echoing endlessly in his mind as he spoke to the nurse, “Scalpel, Nurse Baker.”

“Scalpel,” The nurse looked up at him. “Where’s Klinger, Doctor?”

“Resting. He hasn’t slept in days.” Charles said simply. 

“We really miss him.”

Charles gave her a wan smile. “I’ll tell him, he’ll appreciate the sentiment.”

It was hours before Charles fumbled. He didn’t speak, didn’t move away from his table as men were brought to him with all the efficiency of a Ford assembly line. 

“Major Winchester.” A familiar voice laughed and Charles froze, his eyes wide as he looked down at his most recent patient. “How is your wife?”

A crack of lightning flashed outside the windows of the O.R., illuminating Major Yi’s face in high relief. He smirked at Charles, even as he lay there with a chest and stomach full of shrapnel, blood and sweat covering his face. Charles panted through his nose, shaking and staring down at the man. He stumbled back, into Pierce’s back, upsetting the other surgeon who turned and snapped at him.

“Damnit, Charles, what is it? Realize you owe the guy money?”

Charles raced from the room even as Yi laughed, a gurgling sound that he could ill-afford to make in his condition. 

“Winchester, get back here!” Potter shouted from his own table, but Charles shoved aside nurses and corpsmen, stumbling from the O.R. into the hallway, panting as he ripped off his mask, his beanie. He felt along the walls while wearing his blood-covered rubber gloves, leaving smears of red across the walls and then the door as he finally made it to the compound. 

Hunnicutt’s voice called out for him, and Charles couldn’t even turn to face the man, as he walked through mud, the rain soaking him through to his very bones. “Charles, what the hell is wrong with-” Hunnicutt stared at Charles and Charles hated the expression he saw there through the rain dripping from his brow into his eyes. 

“Don’t.” Charles choked out. “Don’t look at me.”

“Charles, you’re not okay.” Hunnicutt stepped out, despite the fact that he’d have to rescrub. Simmons could take over, even Harris could help replace the two surgeons. “Look at yourself.”

“I _can’t_.” Charles laughed, hysterical and exhausted. “I can’t, if I look at myself I have to see the face of the man who allowed the love of his life to be _tortured_!” Charles stepped forward, his bloody hands gripping at Hunnicutt’s surgical gown. “Could you - could you even begin to imagine how you’d feel hearing that _Peg_ had undergone a fraction of what Maxwell did? Could you _forgive_ yourself for your own weakness, for being unable to stop it?”

Hunnicutt remained silent as Charles stared at him, tears rolling down his face, mingling with the rainwater, with the blood. “No.” He finally whispered. “But I’d know that I didn’t have to carry that burden alone.”

Charles laughed, ragged and hysterical. Lightning flashed and Charles thought of screams, thought of North Korean soldiers with syringes in their hands, thought of old scowling doctors holding Russian rifles, thought of a room filled with lightning.

It took him a moment to realize that the screaming was his own, when he felt his knees hit the mud of the compound, his hands sinking into the blood and water and muck. He felt hands gripping his shoulders as he was hauled up, and voices filled his ears. “Doc! Doc!” Rizzo’s gravelly voice filled Charles’ ears. “Come on, Doc, we’re going to your tent, come on, your Missus’ll take care o’ ya.”

“Stay with him until I get there, Rizzo.” Hunnicutt’s voice ordered. “Just stay with him.”

Rizzo was covered in mud, so was Charles, and Maxwell woke blearily, staring at his husband before his eyes cleared and he scrambled out of bed, straightening and stumbling to his feet. 

“Charles, are you alright?” He asked. “Rizzo, what _happened_ to him?”

“He just snapped, Klinger.” Rizzo said as he helped Charles sit down on the small chair next to the table in the middle of the tent. “Get him warmed up, Klinger, I’m gonna wait here for Cap’n Hunnicutt.”

“God, he’s a _mess_.” Maxwell whispered and Charles looked at him, his eyes bleary. 

“Stand up, sir, I’ll hep ya.” Rizzo said simply, and Charles startled, gripping the man’s wrists when he moved to remove Charles’ gloves, his gown, anything. “Okay, okay, Major, sir. No changing. How about a blanket? Klinger?”

“Here, here.” Maxwell gently bundled the blanket around Charles’ shoulders, the man still as he stared off into the distance, unseeing, barely hearing the two men. It was as if they were far away, talking to him from a great distance. 

Everything was a blur. He smelled tea being made, heard Rizzo and Maxwell speaking to one another, but he couldn’t make out the words. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed by the time he surfaced from his daze, but the other surgeons were staring at him expectantly, crammed into the small tent. 

“Easy, Pierce.” Potter said softly. “The man’s been through a lot. Honestly, he lasted longer than I thought he would.”

“Major Yi-” Charles began, only to be cut off. 

“He’s alive. Pierce worked on him.” Potter sat down across from Charles, staring at the other surgeon. “Winchester, for now, until you speak to Sidney, you’re not to go anywhere near post-op or O.R., is that understood?”

Charles nodded quietly, staring at Potter. “I’m sorry, Colonel Potter.”

“Don’t be sorry, son. Just get cleaned up, and rest.”

Charles laid down on the bed sometime later, cleaned and dried and with M.P.’s posted outside of the tent, Maxwell curled up against his side, a single point of warmth in the cold world that surrounded him.

“Luke 4:23.” 

“What?” Maxwell asked softly. 

“The only bible verse I ever memorized.” Charles whispered. “Physician, heal thyself.”


	60. Dear Sigmund, Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidney Freedman comes to deal with the aftermath of trauma.

“Forgive my appearance, Sidney.” Charles gave an exhausted smile at the man, rubbing at his eyes. “If I’d known you were coming I would have put out the good linen.”

“Oh, that's okay. I don't mind the domestic.” Dr. Freedman was smiling at him, and Charles couldn’t help but feel awful that the man had been called away from other patients, likely ones with more severe issues that needed him more than Charles. After all, he had his husband here, had a supportive staff who had gone out of their way to help him. “I hear that you haven’t been sleeping. From the looks of things the rumors are true.”

Charles cleared his throat. He was unshaven, his eyes were likely bruise-purple, and while his clothing was still clean and orderly, he hadn’t been allowed anywhere near the hospital, not while Major Yi still recovered from his chest wound. Even just the mention of the man had the capacity to make Charles stiffen and his heart pound double time, flashes of lightning blinding his vision for a few seconds before he’d be able to continue with his tasks or conversations. 

“So are you here to herald my transfer to the psycho ward?” Charles asked wearily. “Am I going to have that section 8 that Maxwell had been hounding everyone over?”

“Well, the Marines were busy, so they called me.” Freedman smiled, that calm, easy smile of his. He was Charles’ age, or maybe slightly younger, and that made Charles both more and less nervous. He was a psychiatrist that was a different breed than the doctors that Charles grew up with, but even men his age and younger were prone to archaic beliefs held in secret. Frank Burns sprang to mind. “How 'bout we talk for a while?”

“So long as you don’t ask if I’m in pain.” Charles chuckled wryly. “I had a couple of cracked ribs, a fractured eye socket, and a bloodied nose. Hardly any worse than a bar fight at Rosie’s.”

“Actually, I'm more concerned with what you're feeling emotionally.” Dr. Freedman sat down and Charles sighed as he sat on the edge of the neatly made bed. Boredom had made him clean and reorganize the tent a dozen times over, especially when Maxwell had gone back to his duties as company clerk. 

Charles looked off into the distance. The 4077th was made of tents. And by their nature, tents offered little privacy. The Swamp was right next door, and Charles wouldn’t put it past Pierce and Hunnicutt to listen in. Simmons and Newsome at least had the decency to pretend like they wouldn’t listen in as well. “Well, Sidney…” Charles gave a soft sigh. “You likely read both Maxwell and my file.”

“I did.” No lies ever spilled from Sidney Freedman’s lips, even ones that would have been a mercy to hear. 

“And you know that Major Yi is a North Korean officer in post-op.” Charles flexed his fingers, lightning flashed across his vision. “His commanding officer, Colonel Choi, was declared D.O.A. during the deluge. Major Yi is all that is left of the men that had held Maxwell and I prisoner.”

“He triggered something in you.” Freedman leaned back in his chair, watching Charles stare off into space quietly. 

“What do you know about dreams, Sidney?” Charles asked softly.

“I believe that dreams are the mind’s way of processing things. Trauma, the general thoughts and emotions of a day, even just vague memories or encounters with other people.”

Charles quietly stared at Maxwell’s vanity, at the mirror that the younger man had carefully covered with swathes of fabric so that Charles wouldn’t have to catch sight of his own reflection. “When I was younger I was treated by men who called themselves psychiatrists.” He flexed his hands slightly. “I was treated with injections, with dream analysis, cognitive therapies, and when all else failed, electric shock.” He gave a small smile. “Possibly the reason why I have so little hair now as an adult.” It was a weak attempt at a joke, and Freedman did not smile at it. “My nightmares are lightning storms. They always have been.”

“Makes sense. But what brought it all about?”

“I was knocked unconscious by Major Yi,” Charles said softly. “I dreamed of Maxwell lobotomized. That was what they threatened me with. If I didn’t… Correct the problem. Succumb to treatment.” Charles looked away from Maxwell’s vanity. “My family believed it better for me to die as a war hero rather than come home a homosexual. They made that abundantly clear from the moment I was drafted.” 

“We all knew you were a homosexual, long before you openly admitted it. And perhaps part of it was wishful thinking for some people, to give some sort of explanation as to why you held everyone at a distance.” Freedman gestured to Charles. “But that still doesn’t explain your strong reaction in the O.R..”

Charles clenched his fist, and the gold of his wedding ring tapped upon the wood of the small bedside table that had been acquired for the tent long ago. He pounded a slow rhythm, rolling the words around in his mouth. “Major Yi tortured the love of my life. How could I know that and let him live? Laying there in the cot when he had left Maxwell battered and bruised in the middle of the compound?”

“You are a doctor, you took an oath.” Freedman said simply.

“You don’t think I _know_ that?!” Charles shouted, standing up and pacing the tent, like a shark placed in a fishbowl, everything felt too small, too tight, too confining. “I took an oath to do no harm, I took that oath and I swore myself to the medical profession and I would throw it all away for the fraction of a chance to have that man on the table again.” Charles turned to face Major Freedman and leaned close, glaring at the man. “Do you know what I could have done? I could have killed him, it would have been…” A weak, hysterical laugh. “Easy. So easy, Sidney.”

“But you didn’t. You went out into the compound, into the rain and mud. You could have killed him if you had just stayed.”

“And that was why I had to leave the O.R.,” Charles whispered, rubbing his face with hands that shook with exhaustion, anxiety. “I can’t look myself in the mirror _now_. How could I have looked myself in the mirror, looked _Maxwell_ in the eye, if I had become a murderer.”

Charles breathed heavily, panting as he choked on a sob.

“You’re a good man, Winchester.” Major Freedman said softly.

“I’m not.” Charles shook his head. “A good man would not have these thoughts.”

“Everyone has those thoughts. It’s natural. You’ve been greatly wronged, your husband has been greatly wronged,” The psychiatrist gestured. “Think of Trapper John, B.J., Colonel Potter. Hell, even think of Frank Burns. Do you think that if any of their wives had been placed in the position that Maxwell had been placed in that those good, honorable men, doctors one and all, would not have thoughts like what you have?”

Charles was silent as he pondered that. “No. I suppose not.”

“You’re no different than any of them.” Charles looked up at Freedman, who smiled at him reassuringly. “You should forgive yourself for that.”

“How could I forgive myself when what I am is what made Maxwell the target of our captors?” Charles whispered. “If it was not for me, Maxwell would not have come with me. His rings, my ring, I couldn’t _not_ protect him, show my hand.” He stared at Freedman and a sob choked him as he spoke. “Because I couldn’t be fixed by all of those treatments, because the injections and the hypnosis and the _electric shock_ didn’t work, Maxwell was hurt. The person I love was hurt.”

Doctor Freedman stared at him, listened to his words, and instead of condemning him, agreeing that Charles’ own deviance was the cause of this, the man said softly, “And if you hadn’t been there, then Maxwell would have surely been killed.”

Charles let out a pained noise. 

“No, no, you listen to me now. Ignore all of those voices in your head that are feeding you lies. Listen to _my_ voice.” The man gripped Charles’ hand, forcing him to still, if not to sit down. “What was Maxwell wearing when he was captured?”

“His… His white nurse’s uniform. And my fatigue jacket.”

“And high heels and the matching white hat and pearl earrings, I’m sure. Ever fashion conscious even in an emergency.” Charles nodded silently in agreement as Dr. Freedman smiled at him. “Do you think that if you had not been there, to demand a nurse, if you hadn’t _trained_ Maxwell as a nurse, then he would have been tortured and killed immediately. You bought him time. You kept him alive for longer because you made him useful to them in a way they wouldn’t have thought of, that no one would have thought of.” 

“Sidney-”

The psychiatrist leaned back in his seat, folding his hands and crossing his legs in the classic pose that every man and woman thought of when they thought of a psychiatrist. “When I say the word “nurse” what is the first thing that springs to mind?”

“Maxwell.” Charles supplied without hesitation.

“See, that’s an interesting association.” Freedman smiled at Charles. “Ask any of the other doctors here. They’d associate the word nurse with “woman”.” 

“I don’t see what that has to do with-”

He was cut off again, “Charles, when you look at Maxwell Klinger, you see something that no one, not even the other people in this camp see. And you see that because you feel the sort of love for him that doesn’t blind you, but opens your eyes.” Major Freedman stared at Charles. “You did everything that you could have, Charles. None of this was your fault. There was nothing you could have done, Charles. _Nothing_.”

Charles stared at the other doctor before his shoulders shook and he leaned forward, his head cradled in his hands as he began to silently cry, sobbing as softly as he could. 

He lifted his head when he heard the tent door open and Maxwell came in, wrapping his arms around Charles tightly, clinging to him. “I’m so sorry, Maxwell.” He whispered into the young man’s neck. “I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Maxwell whispered. “But I forgive you anyway, if that’s what it takes.” His thin fingers combed through Charles’ hair. “I love you, Charles, you didn’t do anything wrong. I swear.”

* * *

Charles watched as Major Yi was prepped for transport. The man sat on the edge of his cot, his bandaged arm placed in a sling, and his other hand resting upon his knee.

“Major Winchester,” The man said as he noticed Charles watching him. “Have you come to take your revenge?” The man smirked. “If you were truly a man then you would have taken such action while I was vulnerable on the table. Instead you ran.”

Charles was silent as he watched the man.

“I am going to be tried, and likely executed. Will I see you at the trial?”

“I am escorting you.” Charles said simply. “Along with Captain Newsome, he will testify for the persecution.”

“And who will defend me?”

“A lawyer will be appointed for you.” Charles said simply.

“Will you testify? Tell what I did to you? To your _wife_?” He sneered at the mention of Maxwell, but Charles ignored it.

“Call it closure. I won’t testify.” Charles stared at Major Yi. “But I will see you fall before the firing squad so that I can sleep well at night.”

* * *

When Charles returned from the trial, and subsequent execution, he sat silently in the O Club, nursing a glass of cognac as Straminsky silently sat with him.

“Hey, lover.” Maxwell’s voice called from the doorway and Charles looked over, smiling at the sight of Maxwell in his more professional outfit for his shift in post-op. The white nurse’s uniform had been beyond repair, and Charles would never be able to look at a replacement the same way. Maxwell had taken to wearing his tweed skirt and simple white blouse as a pseudo uniform, the colors subdued and warm and Charles couldn’t help but picture the young man in his own study back home, sitting on the leather chesterfield couch, embroidering a handkerchief or some other needlepoint. 

“Come to bed, Charles.” Maxwell called.

“Of course, darling.” Charles stood, taking Maxwell’s fingers in his own. Those dark eyes searched his own gaze, and Charles stared down at Maxwell. 

“Did it help? Seeing the… You know?”

“Yes.” Charles said softly, kissing Maxwell’s fingers. “It did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Season 7


	61. Sons and Bowlers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the 4077th has a bowling tournament to keep up morale, Charles helps Pierce through a difficult phone call.

It started with overhearing Peirce making a phone call without the assistance of Maxwell. 

Charles had been in post-op while the others had decided that a brilliant way to boost morale was to hold a bowling tournament. Charles had assumed that Pierce, with his competitiveness, would be part of the competition, not shouting to Sparky on the line.

“No! No, no, no, no. Not Portland, Oregon. There's... Yeah, yeah. There's one in Maine, too.”

“Pierce.” Charles called, annoyed at the noise interrupting the sporadic rest of the patients in post-op. 

“Okay, yeah, I'll wait. I'll wait.” Pierce shouted into the receiver of the phone.

“Shh, shh.” Charles hissed, stepping into the office. “For godssakes, Pierce, keep it down!”

“Charles, if you don't mind, this is private.”

“Well, then, shh!” Charles scowled. “If you want the conversation to stay private at least keep your voice at a reasonable level.”

“Yeah, well, see, this is an emergency. My father's…” Pierce hesitated before he looked away from Charles. “My father's having an operation.” He listened to the phone and then repeated. “I said my father's having an operation. I… Why not? What‐what... I don't understand.” Pierce listened to Sparky on the line, his face turning more frantic and confused. “What do you mean, you can't call Portland from Guam? You're routing me through where? Mars?”

Charles straightened, he knew this term from Maxwell’s frequent complaints about the system. “Military Affairs' Radio Station.”

Pierce jumped, realizing that Charles hadn’t left to go back into post-op. Nurse Whitfield was still in there, she could handle the patients for the time being. “Oh. Charles, I don't want anyone else in this camp to know about this.” Pierce’s eyes flicked to the phone and he listened to the line. “Yes, all right! Fine! I'll wait, I'll wait. Yeah, yeah.”

Charles was silent for a moment before he spoke, “What is he going in for?”

Pierce looked at Charles, then away. “He didn't say.”

“Well, when does he go in?” Comfort was not Charles’ specialty, but he had gotten better at it in his time in Korea.

“Today. And thanks to the U. S. Army postal system, which studied under the U. S. Army phone system, the letter he sent me over two weeks ago just got here.” Pierce stared at the letter clutched in his hand and slapped it onto Maxwell’s desk. “Damn it! I wish I knew what it was.”

Charles awkwardly stood in the doorway of post-op. “Well, is there anything I can do?”

Pierce looked at Charles, annoyed and haggard, and worried sick, “Charles, one of the things I've always liked about our relationship is we never let sympathy get in the way.” 

“Ah.” Charles knew when his presence was not wanted, so he merely nodded and stepped back into post-op, listening as Pierce returned to his call as he was connected to M.A.R.S..

“Yes! Yes, I can hear you. Yes. Can you hear me? Wha... I… I'm supposed to say "over"? No! Wait a minute! That wasn't an official "over”!”

* * *

Charles brought Pierce a tin of the Norwegian kippers that Pierce had constantly tried to steal from his footlocker when Charles had stayed in the Swamp. A tin of smoked oysters, and a bar of Belgian chocolate. He leaned against Maxwell’s desk as he opened the various tins and placed them carefully down on the surface while Pierce held the phone close.

“Yes, I'm still waiting. Over. And over and over and over.”

“Eat, Pierce.” Charles ordered softly.

“No, thank you.” Pierce held up his hand and Charles nodded only to straighten when Pierce’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, Portland General? I'm‐‐ I'm trying to reach my father, Daniel Pierce. Over.” Pierce looked up at Charles. “I got the hospital.” He whispered.

“Splendid.” Charles sat down on the bed that Maxwell slept in most nights as of late. 

“She's ringing the room.” Pierce’s leg bounced nervously as he listened. “Hello? Hel‐Hello? Who... Wait. Who's this? No, no, no, no, no. I can't clear the line. I'm… Now, come on, operator. Just give me a minute, will you? The… Yeah, well, can't the general wait? My father's gonna be on in a‐” Pierce blinked. “Hello? Hello? Damn!” He tossed the phone aside, and then picked it up again, checking it over to make sure it wasn’t hurt. 

Charles silently stared at Pierce, waiting for the other man to speak. He had already told Maxwell that there was a situation with Pierce that he wanted to keep an eye on. The young man was not expecting him in bed that night, and as much as it pained Charles to not spend one of the rare occasions he _got_ to sleep with Maxwell curled around the younger man’s blessed warmth, Pierce needed someone.

"Tests and possible surgery." Pierce read from his letter, clutching the phone bag to his chest like O’Reilly had once clutched his teddy bear. “This letter has "cancer" written all over it.” The phone rang and Pierce picked it up immediately. “4077 M*A*S*H*. Yes, this is Captain Pierce. Who's this?” He listened and his eyes lit up with renewed hope. “That's great! That's great! Thank you, thank you.” He pulled the phone away and looked to Charles. “Ham operator in Portland. He picked up my call, and he's ringing the hospital now.” 

Charles nodded his understanding as Pierce held the receiver back to his ear. 

“Hello? This is Captain Pierce calling from Korea. Please, don't cut me off. I understand that my father, Dr. Daniel Pierce, is in for an operation, and I'd like to speak to him, please. Over.” Another round of silence before Pierce’s eyes met Charles. “They're putting me through. Okay. Hello, Dad? Over. Oh. Who‐Who's... Who's this? Over.” Pierce’s face went pale and he listened before he nodded, even though the other person couldn’t see it. “Whe‐When did he go in? Over. Yeah, all right. Look. I'm his… I'm his son, and I'm a physician. What can you tell me about his condition? Over.” 

Whoever was on the other end spoke for a long time, and Charles felt his heart ache for Pierce as tears filled the man’s eyes. 

“Yeah. I see. Thank you, nurse. Out.” He cleared his throat. “Operator, I'd like to place this call again in about an hour or two. Thank you.”

Pierce was silent for a long moment and Charles didn’t push for answers, simply offered Pierce the food he had brought. Pierce took one of the smoked oysters between his fingers and Charles wondered when he had become so accustomed to such barbarism that he didn’t even blink at the gesture.

“They did an I.V.P., and they found a mass pushing on his kidney.” Pierce finally said, so soft it was barely heard.

“Oh.” Charles breathed, staring at the other surgeon.

“And then when they opened him up, they found a pheochromocytoma.” Pierce folded his hands, and if Charles knew how anti-religious the man was he would have thought that the other surgeon was praying.

“All right. That's…” Charles tried to find the words to reassure the other surgeon. “That's delicate. But if they're careful, they should be able to get it out without any trouble.” 

“And if they make a mistake, it could kill him.” Pierce whispered, picking up the letter from his father again, reading it for what must have been the hundredth time. “He's doing it to me. I know it. I know it. I just know it.”

Charles blinked in confusion as he sat down on the clerk’s bed shoved into the corner, wishing quietly, selfishly, that he was sleeping with Max in their own tent. “I'm afraid you've lost me.”

“One morning, when I was 10, my dad made me breakfast.” Pierce began, fidgeting with the letter, folding and unfolding it. “A bowl of cornflakes. And I... I asked him why Mom wasn't making breakfast that morning. And he said she wasn't feeling well, but it was nothing.” He looked at Charles and then away, scowling. “And a few days later, he made me scrambled eggs and bacon and said that Mom was in the hospital, but it was nothing to worry about.” Pierce’s voice cracked on the last word and the tears he had held back came, rolling down his cheeks. “By the time Dad was up to... French toast and sausages, Mom was gone. He never wanted to worry me.” He waved the letter at Charles. “Nothing's changed since I was 10. This is just another fancy breakfast.”

Charles was silent before he stood, nudging the tins of food to Pierce. “Eat. I’m going to get some coffee. We’ll wait for this together.”

Charles went to the mess tent, by way of Colonel Potter’s tent, knocking on the man’s door. 

“What in blue blazes does anyone need at this hour?” Potter grumbled on the other side, and when the door opened Charles spoke before the man could reprimand him.

“Colonel Potter, Pierce got a letter today from his father. He didn’t want to infringe upon the morale activities for the day, but it was from his father. We just got word that he is in surgery now for pheochromocytoma.”

Potter stared at Charles before he asked, “And you know that how? You two were never very close.”

“I consider Pierce a friend, as loose of a connection as it is.” Charles took a deep breath and spoke words that he had never wanted to speak. “Pierce is a few service points away. Send him home now to be with his father. His sister cannot care for the man, and Pierce deserves to have what time he has left with his father in person, not squeezed through letters and a telephone wire.”

Potter stared at Charles before he nodded. “I’ll get the orders placed in the morning. Tell him tonight.”

“Thank you, Colonel.” Charles whispered, turning to leave the Colonel to his rest, what rest he could have before reveille anyway. He got coffee from the mess tent, burnt and lukewarm at the same time, and when he returned to the clerk’s office, Pierce was clutching the phone again like he might fly apart if he didn’t.

He was silent as Charles handed him the coffee before he spoke. “I mean, I've said it a thousand times: "Talk to you later, Dad. I love you." But I never told him...” Pierce stared at Charles as the other man sat on the small bed shoved into the corner. “I never told him that I mean it, that I... that I really do... Love him, w‐with a love that I could never feel for anybody else in the world.” Pierce looked at the letter, holding it in one trembling hand as he clutched the phone with the other. “What if he dies now without my having a chance to say that to him?”

Charles breathed deeply and tried to be a friend. “Pierce, there is no sense in projecting the worst in this thing.”

“The worst is a distinct possibility.” Pierce rested his head against the bag of phone held to his chest. “Dad and I are too close to let this all suddenly end with... silence, 12,000 miles apart.”

Charles was silent for a long moment before he spoke. “Pierce, you should be grateful that... only distance is separating you.” He gave a small, wry smile. “My father and I have been 12,000 miles apart in the same room.”

Pierce’s eyes flashed with guilt and Charles knew he had listened in when Sidney Freedman had come to the encampment, when Charles had spilled his guts over the therapy he had undergone in his youth. “Yeah?”

Charles gave a brief, sad smile before he stared into the distance, recalling a time before all of those treatments, a time when he had truly loved his father. “The most intimate and personal communication at the Winchester household took place at the evening meal. Every night, promptly at 7.15, we would gather at the dinner table. The soup would be served, and my father would begin with... "Tell us what you did today, Charles." As the elder of the two children, I was given the privilege of speaking first.” Charles sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. He could envision it, Honoria seated to his left, his father to his right at the head of the table, his mother across from Charles, seated at his father’s right. “I would then have until the salad to report the highlights of my day. Even now, the sight of lettuce makes me talk faster.”

Pierce was silent, biting his cheek as he stared at Charles. “I always assumed that that's how it was in every family. But when I see the... warmth... closeness, the fun of your relationship…” Charles shook his head and gave Pierce a firm look. “My father's a good man. He always wanted the best for me.” Lightning flashed across his vision, the colour yellow filled his senses, then it was gone, released like a butterfly on the wind. “But... where I have a father... you have a dad.” Charles leaned forward, rested his elbows upon his knees. “Go pack your things, Pierce. I will man the phones for now.”

“What?” Pierce asked, confused. 

“I spoke to Potter. Informed him of the situation.” Charles stared at the other man quietly. “You’re going home tomorrow afternoon, to care for your father.”

“I… Charles-”

“Please,” Charles stood, holding out his hand for the bag of phone. “Just go pack, you can say your goodbyes later. Shave, take a shower. It will still be some time yet before the procedure is complete and the call is placed.”

Pierce stood, shakily, stunned, as he handed over the phone. His hand gripped Charles’ wrist and he stared at the man before he cleared his throat. “Thank you, Charles.”

“No thanks necessary,” Charles said with a soft smile. “Now go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beginning of Season 8 (Final Season of this Story)


	62. Lend A Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles gets promoted to Chief Surgeon of the 4077th, a position he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy.

Newsome and Simmons were too good to keep for long, and Charles hated that about them. 

Simmons was a bright-eyed, eager wunderkind, the sort of person that the Army loved to send around on tour and show off at every unit they possibly could. He now went to different M*A*S*H* units to teach new techniques, developed right there in the 4077th. Newsome… As good as the man was, he cracked horribly under the pressure of returning to a M*A*S*H*. By the time they bugged out for the fourth time, Newsome had crumbled, like a wall that had a leak that never got proper repairs. He was sent back to Tokyo General, treating Generals whose worst ailments usually came from age and poor diets, not from any sort of closeness to the battlefield. Even Harris, brilliant and ready to accomplish so much, was given her service points and sent home. 

Charles supposed he should have been happy when Major Borelli stepped out of a jeep that rolled up through the snow, smiling at the doctors as he stepped into the mess tent where they were all huddled around what stoves that could be spared to keep the communal spaces and the post-op ward warm. 

“Dr. Borelli,” Colonel Potter stood, shaking the man’s hand even as he shivered and kept himself as bundled up as much as he could. “Thank you for your quick volunteering to come here, but I’ll have to call in a psychiatrist in order to make sure you’re all there.”

“Well, I do enjoy getting close to the action sometimes, and I only have a few months left before I’m due to be shipped back home.” The man gave a sly, good-natured smile. “Well, unless you can give me a compelling reason to stay.”

“Well, now I’ll be sure to do my best, Dr. Borelli, but first, let’s introduce you to the rest of the ensemble.” Potter led Borelli over to where Charles and Maxwell were seated, Hunnicutt standing across from them, bouncing on his heels in an attempt to keep warm. “We’ve had a bit of a sudden series of losses, so Major Winchester and Major Hunnicutt are our last two cutters we got on staff.”

“Yes, Major Winchester and I met before, I came as a consultant once to teach arterial grafts.”

“Between bobbing for olives with Trapper and Pierce.” Charles supplied as Maxwell gave him a brief elbow to the ribs. 

“Steady, Charles.” Maxwell gave the other man a raised brow. “Where did all those fancy manners go?”

“Those are for a proper society, not this glorified roach motel.” Charles said simply.

Borelli raised a brow and looked around before he asked Potter, “What about Dr. Pierce and Dr. McIntyre? I thought they would still be here.”

“His father needed him more than we did.” Charles said simply, staring at the other Doctor.

“Winchester, as rude as he is, is right.” Potter said simply. “Though you could stand to be a bit more grateful to the Doctor, Winchester. He’s helping us out until we can get some new hands on deck.” 

Charles rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything. 

“You still billeted in the Swamp, Major?” Borelli asked as he looked at Charles curiously.

Charles stood, shoving his hands into his pockets before he moved towards the doors of the mess tent. “No.” He said simply, and left.

“Let’s get you set up in the Swamp, Major Borelli,” Maxwell’s voice carried, amused as he pat the other surgeon on the shoulder.

* * *

“What’s all this?” Major Borelli asked as Potter stood in the compound wearing his cowboy hat and his worn fatigues, staring at the piles of boxes that surrounded him. Charles felt just as disheartened as he looked at the boxes filling the compound in front of the clerk’s reception door. Hunnicutt opened one of the boxes and blinked in confusion before he checked the sides of all the others.

“These are tongue depressors.”

“Right on the money, Hunnicutt. Half a million tongue depressors.” Potter said with a scowl. 

“That’s enough to last another five years!” Hunnicutt laughed before his expression fell at the realization. “Oh…”

Charles picked up a handful of the thin wooden sticks and sighed, frowning at them. “H.Q. wouldn’t send this if they didn’t think there’d be a demand. Expect this war to last five more years, Borelli.” He scowled at the other doctor. “Of course, you will be long gone by then, since you’re only three months to discharge.” Just another man caught in the crammed revolving door that was the 4077th. 

“Ease up, Winchester, Borelli is going to stay here as long as we need him to, and if that means extending his stay, I’m sure the U.S. Army in all of it’s wisdom will grant us that.”

“Of course, Colonel.” Borelli said with a smile that Charles wanted to wipe off his face. He was clearly off the booze, and Charles couldn’t help but think that if _this_ was the man beneath all the alcohol that he much preferred the lush that had visited before. What made him feel worse was that Hunnicutt _liked_ the man. Maybe not as much as he liked Pierce, but enough to bond with the other doctor and to ask him curious questions, to laugh at the man’s stories and tell him jokes in turn. 

“Well, now is as good a time as any since we’re all thinking about it. Come on, Doctors, into my office.”

Charles trailed behind Hunnicutt and Borelli, the three surgeons taking their seats in Potter’s office. The C.O. didn’t bother removing his cowboy hat as he sat down, looking at the doctors before he sighed and got straight to the point of things.

“With Hawkeye Pierce gone we’re looking at getting a new Chief Surgeon around here. Now I don’t want any arguments or competition breaking out around here, and certainly there will be no stepping on toes, unintentional or otherwise.” Potter looked at the three men, as if scanning for protest. “I’ll have you know that all of you are fine doctors equally qualified for the job.”

“But which one of us is the prettiest girl at the harvest moon ball?” Hunnicutt asked, smiling cheekily at Potter. 

“And that sort of lip is just one of the reasons I won’t be making you Chief Surgeon, Hunnicutt.” Potter said with a good-natured grin. “Major Winchester, Major Borelli, unfortunately when it comes right down to it, Winchester has been here longer than any of us. He’s gotten used to this mad house-”

“Like a frog slowly being boiled to death.” Charles said with a wry look at the man. “If you’re about to say that I’m Chief Surgeon, then I decline.”

“Unfortunately you have no choice, Winchester,” Potter said with a grin that was much more forced and much less good natured. “Think of it as being back at Boston General with your underlings scurrying about doing your bidding.”

“Colonel, I was under the impression that when you said you needed me here… You needed me as the Chief Surgeon?” Borelli seemed uncertain as to how to address what he considered a lapse in the Colonel’s judgment. Especially when his own ego was clearly on the line.

“Oh no, I have a Chief Surgeon, what I needed was someone who could help us get back on track with some of our techniques.” Potter looked at Borelli. “You’re still a wearing that soldier suit for a few more months, and I can keep you here if I have good enough reason. Being down to only three surgeons is perfectly good reason.” Potter tilted his head to the door. “And just so that I don’t need to get involved with any petty arguing: Dismissed.”

Charles glared at Borelli and Hunnicutt, exhaustion making him irritable as he stormed his way to his and Maxwell’s tent. He glared at the mountain of tongue depressor boxes and snatched one off the top, deciding that he could use it to heat his tent if nothing else. He was grateful for Colonel Potter, the man made sure to schedule his and Maxwell’s off shifts together as of late, but this was not what he wanted in exchange for that luxury. He didn’t want to be Chief Surgeon _here_. He wanted it back in Boston General, but being Chief Surgeon of a M*A*S*H* was its own special brand of torment. Impossible decisions being made in split seconds. Who to keep, who to lose, when was a leg more important than an arm, when someone was beyond saving. 

Max wasn’t in the tent at the moment, probably grabbing a shower before the rush of other people, so Charles sat down at their small table beside the stove, slowly feeding the tongue depressors into it one by one, watching them catch and crackle and blacken. 

When the door to the tent opened Maxwell was dressed in his soft blue robe, toweling his hair dry. “What’s up with all the tongue depressors?” Max asked as he rested his arms over Charles’ shoulders, rubbing over his chest as Maxwell gently kissed at the man’s temple. 

“Half a million tongue depressors to be exact.” Charles sighed. “We wouldn't have this supply if they didn't think there'd be a demand.” Charles picked up a fistful of the small wooden sticks. “Tongue depressors, doctors, soldiers... We're all the same.” Charles felt Maxwell’s thin fingers knead and massage at his shoulders, the younger man listening as Charles spoke. “Trapper John goes.” He tossed one of the tongue depressors into the fire. “No problem. There's plenty more where he came from.” He picked up another one. “B. J. Hunnicutt. Same size, same shape.” He tossed it into the fire. “Frank Burns out… Bring in Newsome and Simmons.” Three more into the fire. Charles sighed and stared at another one. “Henry Blake…” He snapped the depressor in half and tossed it into the fire as well. “Rest in peace, Henry.” He sighed. “Incoming Sherman Potter.” Another tongue depressor before Charles sighed and picked up two more. “Radar O’Reilly goes home. Maxwell Klinger takes his place as company clerk.” Both tossed into the fire. “Hawkeye Pierce…” Charles sighed and tossed the final depressor aside. “Paging Anthony Borelli to the front.”

Maxwell leaned down and Charles sighed at the feeling of lips to his neck. 

“No one is here for the duration, you know that.” Maxwell whispered, his hands returning to Charles’ shoulders, kneading slowly. “We’ll go home soon.”

“When? How much longer? They keep changing the rotation points.” Charles sighed. “And even then… You and I might not be able to go back at the same time.”

Maxwell was silent for a long moment before he gently rubbed his hands over Charles’ shoulders. “Come here, baby, lemme take your mind off things.” Charles stiffened at that, shivering when he felt Maxwell’s hands slide underneath his fatigues, dragging over Charles’ skin and sending lightning skittering along his spine with the touch. “You know my Uncle Amir was once a masseur, he taught me all the best ways to get people to relax.” Maxwell’s lips brushed over Charles’ neck, over his jaw. “But I know a few ways to get you to relax that would make Uncle Amir blush.”

Charles shivered, tilting his head back as Maxwell sauntered in front of him, all lean legs and slim waist and hips, smirking as he stared down at Charles, dressed in his olive green fatigues while Maxwell was a vision in light blue silk. Charles shivered at the sight of Maxwell standing in front of him, his damp, towel-dried hair sticking to his cheeks as he dropped the towel on the dirt floor and knelt on the fabric. Charles stiffened and gripped at Maxwell’s hand as the younger man undid the button and zip of Charles’ fatigues, groping Charles with practiced, eager hands.

“Excited already?” Max grinned. “I barely did anything.”

“You have that affect on me,” Charles panted breathlessly, staring down at Maxwell as the younger man slowly stroked him, dark eyes staring up at the surgeon with a sly, feline sort of delight. “Maxwell… Darling.” Charles hissed as Maxwell leaned down, his soft lips parting as he took Charles into his mouth, Charles’ long fingers tangled in Maxwell’s hair desperately. “ _Fuck_.”

Maxwell chuckled and pulled back, grinning up at his husband. “Language, Major baby.”

Charles groaned and grabbed at Maxwell’s hair as the younger man lowered his head, continuing to suck and lick and stroke Charles until the man’s hips were thrusting frantically, needfully. When Maxwell pulled back, lips swollen and flushed, Charles let out a frustrated noise, gripping Maxwell’s upper arms in order to haul the younger man upwards, to his feet, then over to the bed. He lifted and all but tossed the younger man onto their shared bed, making Maxwell laugh and shiver as Charles groaned and knelt before the bed. 

“Little minx.” Charles growled into Maxwell’s thigh, biting at the dark, warm flesh, one hand pushing the leg open, the other reaching up to fumble open the thin silk robe. “Walking across the compound dressed like this? How do you not freeze?”

“I knew you’d warm me up.” Maxwell gasped, shivering as Charles bit and sucked at the crease of his thigh and groin, making his leg twitch against Charles’ shoulder, his heel pressed to the surgeon’s back to bring him closer.

“You need to be more careful.” Charles grumbled, but before Maxwell could reply, call him a mother hen, he leaned in to press his mouth to Maxwell, warming him further with his lips and tongue. His free hand finally pulled the robe open so that he could slide his palm over Maxwell’s chest, his fingers catching on the scar there (a flash of lightning and Charles recalled the feeling of Maxwell bleeding in his arms, the sight of red on silver). Charles growled and forced the memory aside, focusing on the feeling of smooth skin along Maxwell’s stomach, waist, thigh, then to press long fingers between his thighs. Charles couldn’t resist Maxwell, he never had been able to and never would for as long as he lived. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t tease the young man. 

He set to work Maxwell open with tongue and fingers as he stroked the younger man until he was thrashing and gasping on the bed, perfectly manicured fingers gripping at the back of Charles’ skull, leaving bright pink lines that would surely show through his sparse hair. While Maxwell knew how to make Charles turn to putty in his hands, could get Charles to do anything he pleased with a bat of those pretty lashes and a flash of a grin, Charles knew how to make Maxwell melt under his hands. 

“Charles!” Maxwell gasped when the man finally pulled back, the older man groaning in satisfaction at how breathless the younger man was beneath him. He watched Maxwell’s eyes as he sank into the younger man, his hips working slowly until their bodies were flush together, Maxwell’s head thrown back as he whimpered and whined and bit his lower lip to try and contain his noises. They were, after all, in the compound, mere feet away from the Swamp, meters away from post-op and O.R., and not in a Tokyo hotel where the staff could be paid to ignore them. 

“I want to hear you, darling,” Charles whispered as he kissed Maxwell’s lips, catching his soft little noises, swallowing them down before he gripped Maxwell’s hips and began to thrust harder, faster, causing Maxwell to yelp and whine and bite his lip even harder to contain the noises. “Come along, Maxwell,” Charles growled, his hand stroking over the younger man’s length. “Be a good girl for me.”

“Charles!” Maxwell let out a wounded sound, strangled and desperate as he came, and Charles couldn’t help but smirk at the sound, as brief as it was, and leaned down to kiss his young husband. Maxwell panted and moaned and kissed him back as Charles continued to move, wringing small gasps from the other man before he groaned and clutched Maxwell closer, panting into his damp hair as he spent himself inside the younger man. 

Charles pulled back, only to be greeted by a smug smirk. “And what, pray tell, has you so smug?”

“Oh nothing,” Maxwell said simply, continuing to smirk as he sat up and stretched, moving to clean off and get dressed.

“I don’t believe you.” Charles said suspiciously as he watched Maxwell, catching the cloth that Maxwell tossed at him to clean himself. 

Maxwell smirked as he leaned over Charles, dressed in a white blouse and grey wool skirt. “Don’t you trust me, Daddy?” Charles gaped at Maxwell as the young man slipped his stockings, shoes, and a cardigan on before he looked over his shoulder at Charles. “Going to go check and see if there’s anything edible for lunch.”

Charles watched as the door swung closed before he groaned and stood, righting his own clothing as he murmured, “Little _minx_.” Before he followed his husband into the compound, burning warm enough to ignore the chill of the air outside.


	63. Private Finance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles does not advertise good works. That would cheapen them.

Charles chuckled as he watched Maxwell take Rizzo, Igor, and Zale to the cleaners in a poker game, the young man laying down his cards on one of the larger tables of Rosie’s establishment. There had been a lull in the fighting, and as such boredom had taken over for most of the 4077th, making them seek pursuits among the locals. 

So when a working girl came into Rosie’s, Charles didn’t notice at first. Until he noticed her stumbling in her high heels over towards his table. He looked up and the girl froze, Charles recognizing her quickly, his eyes narrowing at the girl as she flushed under her makeup covered face and turned away from him, stumbling to another table. 

“I will buy you drink, Joe?” She asked a soldier, Crosetti if Charles remembered properly. When the man, drunk out of his mind, grinned up at her mockingly, she stuttered and corrected herself. “No, no. I mean, you will buy me drink.”

“Well, well. What do we have here?” Crosetti asked, looking up at the girl. “Park it here, toots. Come on.”

“We have me.” She sat down on the chair next to Crosetti’s, her legs spread awkwardly, like a baby deer’s, beneath the table. “I am looking for funny time. Okay, Joe?”

Charles nudged Maxwell, who looked at him away from his poker hand, and then his eyes zeroed in on the girl. “Look familiar?” Charles asked softly, and Maxwell instantly stood, discarding a straight flush as he walked over, his purse hooked over his wrist as he put his hands on his hips. 

“Oksun Li, is that you?” He asked, his tone scolding.

Oksun jumped, looking up at Maxwell with a shamed expression. “Oh, Corporal Klinger.”

“Yeah. What are you doing here?” Maxwell asked, glaring at Crosetti.

“Beat it, Klinger, she's mine!” Crosetti grabbed at Oksun’s wrist, and tried to keep her in place, but Maxwell pushed the other man’s hand away. 

“Take it easy, Crosetti, she's just a kid.” Maxwell glared at the other man. 

“She don't look like no kid to me, do you, sweetie?” The man grinned at Oksun, trying to grip her face and Charles stood, deciding to intervene before the drunken man started a brawl.

“Corporal Crosetti, leave her alone,” Charles stepped over, looming over the solider, who glared at him. Maxwell quickly yanked Oksun out of her chair and towards the door, leaving Charles to handle the other man. “She's not what you think. She's our laundry girl.”

“Terrific!” Crosetti stood quickly woozily. “She can do my shirts too.”

Charles was prepared to belt the other man, only for Crosetti to fall over, absolutely reeking of alcohol. Charles sighed, turning to Rosie. “Here.” He gave the woman behind the bar a few dollar bills. “For the trouble.” The others from Maxwell’s poker game were gone from the table and Charles sighed, paying their tabs as well, before he stepped outside to find Maxwell and a rather upset looking Oksun Li.

“Why you do that? Now they will not like me!” The girl shouted at Maxwell, tears gathering in her eyes, about to ruin her painstakingly applied makeup.

“Oksun Li, what are you doing here?” Maxwell asked, looking very much like a mother scolding the girl in his blue tea dress and pillbox hat.

“I did nothing. You stopped me.” Oksun Li wrung a silk scarf between her fingers angrily. 

“You bet I stopped you! I'm not gonna let you ruin your life!”

“But I have to get money, Klinger.” Oksun Li sniffled and Charles pulled his handkerchief out, holding it out to the girl, who hesitantly accepted it, dabbing at her eyes before she wrung it between her fingers.

“Doesn't the laundry job pay enough?” Charles asked gently as he watched the girl. Maxwell had grown fond of her since she had been hired months ago, she had only recently turned fourteen, much too young to be dolled up the way she was.

“No. Too many of us doing laundry. Not enough shirts to go around.” Oksun explained as she looked down at her feet. 

“Well, I'm not gonna let you hang around bars!” Maxwell said, throwing his hands up. “I'm your friend. You need money, come to me.” He opened his purse and held out a bundle of his poker money to the girl. “That should help you out, and I'll try to get the guys to throw some more underwear your way.”

Charles looked at Oksun Li and asked her gently, “Did you make this dress yourself?” 

Oksun looked up at Charles and shook her head, wringing her fingers. “I traded for the dress.”

“That’s alright.” He smiled down at her, and Oksun looked at him curiously as he rested a hand on Maxwell’s waist. “Maxwell… I think that we could give our dear Ms. Li something a little more permanent than some money for now.”

Maxwell picked up quickly and smiled broadly. “Of course! Teach a man now to fish and all that.” The younger man turned and looked at Oksun. “I’ll teach you how to be a proper seamstress, you’ll be starting the Li Collection in no time, and let me tell you, those business girls you got that getup from? They _love_ custom getups!”

“Really? You will teach me?” The girl asked, smiling at Maxwell eagerly, looking so young despite her very adult outfit. 

“Of course, why would I lie?” Maxwell smiled. “Lessons start tomorrow.”

Oksun Li hugged Maxwell tightly, the money clutched in her hand as she gave his cheek a soft kiss, Maxwell returning the tight hug. Only for the sound of Mrs. Li’s voice to shout her daughter’s name angrily and cause the three to turn towards her. 

“Mother!” The girl bowed her head and listened to the older woman’s scolding, Mrs. Li approaching the group and swatting Maxwell with a broom. 

“Oof!” Maxwell darted away, hiding behind Charles. “What was that for?” He asked over Charles’ shoulder, the Korean woman trying to dart around Charles, only for Oksun to put herself between the two men and her mother, trying to reassure her in Korean.

“Mother say I have disgraced her.” Oksun Li said softly, and Charles rested a hand on her shoulder. 

“Mrs. Li, nothing happened, we stopped Oksun before anything untoward could happen to her.” Charles gestured to the money in the girl’s hand. “The money is her first paycheck as an assistant seamstress.”

Oksun attempted to translate that, only for her mother to snap something at her which made the girl’s face flush before she looked helplessly up at Charles. “She does not believe that you did not do anything untoward to me as well.”

Charles recalled, briefly, that Oksun was the one to deliver the laundry for the 4077th. He had only seen Mrs. Li a few times in and out of the laundry tent, but never in his own tent. “Ah. Well… There is a simple explanation.” Charles said as he guided Maxwell out from behind him. He leaned down and held up Maxwell’s left hand and his own, showing the woman the wedding rings. “We are married. Ah, this is _my_ Maxwell Klinger, ah, Oksun, dear, what is the word for… Spouse? Wife? Husband?”

Oksun quickly tried to translate, clearly describing Maxwell and Charles’ relationship, as best as she could. This did not seem to settle Mrs. Li, but she no longer attempted to strike Maxwell.

“We only have your best interest in mind, Oksun, please try and let your mother know that.” Charles smiled as Maxwell nodded quickly in agreement. 

“And I will see you tomorrow at 0800 for your first lesson.”

* * *

“Your mother doesn’t like soldiers, does she?” Charles asked Oksun as the girl carefully ironed the seams of her first dress. She was dressed in her more traditional clothing, modest and functional, and well-worn. Her face was cleaned of makeup and it made her look so much younger, her face soft and open and warm. She wouldn’t have lasted as a working girl, and Charles was grateful that he and Maxwell had been there to stop her from running off to make a mistake with Crosetti. It had been little over a month since she had become Maxwell’s protege, and had taken to sewing like a fish to water. Maxwell had given her some of his favorite pre-packaged patterns that he used to use as templates, but had long outgrown using, Charles had also purchased some fabric for her to use for her own practice, hoping to give her a good start to her new occupation.

“No, she does not.” The girl sighed, looking at the simple, modest sheath dress, made from a perfectly kept blue velvet that Maxwell had never been able to decide what to use it for. “Mother hate all soldiers.” She smoothed her fingers over the seams before she turned the dress right side out, holding it up to look at it. “They take my father to fight, and now he is dead. My brother is also soldier, and he is missing.” She placed the dress down gently, tears in her eyes that she stubbornly wiped away. “Soldiers have destroyed our farm. Americans, Chinese, North Korean, South Korean. Each time we rebuild, they come back to make more war.”

Realization came to Charles and he stared at the sweet girl. “You're all she's got left, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Oksun sighed and looked at the dress. “I thank you both for teaching me how to sew, even giving my mother and I extra work, but it will still not be enough.”

“Enough for what?” Maxwell asked curiously, looking at the young woman with a small frown. 

“I am ashamed of what I tried to do, but I know no other way to get the money so quickly so that I can take my mother away from here.”

Charles could see the pain in Maxwell’s eyes at the prospect of losing a friend, but Maxwell still asked softly, “Where would you go?”

“My mother's sister live in Pusan where the fighting is over.” Oksun shrugged as she held the dress close to her chest, feeling the soft fabric. “We could stay with her, and I could find honorable work.”

Charles smiled at the young girl, and stood, giving Maxwell a soft kiss. “Why don’t the two of you continue with the lesson, I’ll be back soon.”

“Of course,” Maxwell agreed, kissing the surgeon gently. “Don’t do anything dumb.”

“I promise to do nothing foolish.” Charles smiled and kissed Maxwell again, then a third time for good luck before he left. 

Charles had rare occasion outside of the O.R. to speak to Soon-Tek Kwang, but the man was well known for his calm, even attitude, unshakable even in the chaos of the O.R., something that was perfect for both an anesthesiologist and a translator when enemy soldiers were brought in to assist. Ever since the fateful events during the wind storm, Charles had found himself even more avoidant of the man outside of the O.R. when he had discovered that Kwang had been the one to speak to the wounded Major Yi. It was shameful, that anyone knew what had been done to Charles and Maxwell, that anyone knew Charles’ own failure to protect his husband, but there were some things much more important than pride. 

Charles cleared his throat as he approached Kwang in the O Club. “Mr. Kwang?” The man looked up at him and smiled good-naturedly. 

“Major Winchester, how can I be of assistance?”

Charles cleared his throat. “I, ah, feel somewhat embarrassed to ask this of you, but might I borrow you for your mother tongue?”

The man’s gaze turned curious, though it was not guarded, the man clearly thinking the best of Charles, despite the fact that he had no true reason to. “Of course. Is there a North Korean patient?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Charles shook his head. “This is more, ah, personal than that.”

They went to the laundry facilities and Charles pointed out Mrs. Li. Kwang approached her and asked if she might have a discussion with him and Maxwell, the two of them conversing in Korean for a small amount of time before they approached Charles, who led them into the small examination room to give the semblance of privacy in the crowded compound.

Mrs. Li was a worn woman, her hands cracked and bleeding from the astringent washing powder. Charles asked her to sit, Kwang helping her onto the table before Charles began to apply salve to her hands, checking her pulse, her lungs, her temperature. 

“Mrs. Li,” He began as he quietly made notes of the woman’s health. “Your daughter loves you very much, she never meant to dishonor you all those weeks ago.” Kwang translated the words, and Charles waited before he continued. “She has told us some of the struggles your family has faced, I cannot begin to say that I know what you feel, that I understand the depth of your life experience.” He stared at her quietly as she listened to Kwang’s voice. After the other man had finished speaking, Charles pulled out his wallet and opened it, counting out bills before he handed them to her. “This is for you, Mrs. Li. In order to start a new life in Pusan with your sister.” 

Mrs. Li shook her head, snapping and shouting at Charles in Korean, and Kwang listened before he spoke to Charles. “She believes that this is a trick, in order to incriminate her, or to buy her daughter from her.”

“No, Mrs. Li.” Charles took the money and placed it in those worn hands, his eyes fixed on hers, holding her gaze firmly. “This is yours. It is my money, and I have more than enough of it. You need this. A war zone is no place for you or your daughter to live. She is so young and there is no future for her here.” His hands gently pulled back, Mrs. Li still holding the money in her own palms, cupped like she might hold a baby bird, expecting it to fly away. “Maxwell has taught her how to sew, a good trade, an honorable one, she can find work in Pusan.” 

Kwang translated Charles’ words and the woman’s stern, scowling expression softened around the corners of her eyes. 

“I am not a soldier,” Charles said softly. “I am a Doctor first. I have been sworn to do no harm. And that means to relieve pain where I see it.”

Mrs. Li quietly murmured something and Kwang spoke, “She says that you are a good man, Doctor Winchester.”

Charles smiled at her. “This money comes with only one condition, Mrs. Li.” The woman stiffened at that, but Charles continued. “Tell no one that I gave it to you.”

Mrs. Li nodded and when Charles pulled back she stood and left to find her daughter, leaving Charles and Kwang together in the examination room. 

“Major Winchester?” Kwang asked softly.

“Yes, Sergeant Kwang?” Charles cleaned up the items he had used in the exam, placing the salve in its proper place in the medicine cabinet. 

“Why did you do that for her? She is only the laundry woman to you.”

Charles looked at the other man and said simply, “I owe you no explanation, Mr. Kwang. Please, do not spread this around.” Kwang nodded, looking away and turning to leave, only to pause and stare when Charles called out. “It would be inconvenient for people to realize that I do have a heart.”


	64. No Laughing Matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colonel Baldwin comes to the 4077th on a fact finding mission. Charles and Maxwell try to get a ticket to Tokyo from him.

“They knew what they were talking about when they passed the Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.” Colonel Potter stared at Charles as the man rubbed at his temples with both hands. He had just come off of a long shift in post-op, tending to the chest tubes of a particularly fragile case that was due for transport. He hadn’t been able to sleep in the same bed as Maxwell for the last four days and Charles was looking forward to being able to rest and lay in bed with Maxwell in the privacy of their tent. Potter took Charles’ exhausted silence as permission to continue. “Forgive and forget is a pretty savvy sentiment too. And might I also remind you that valor is not the only thing, that discretion is the better part of‐”

Patience running dangerously thin, Charles sighed. “Colonel, I pray that there is a reason why you are assaulting me with Bartlett's barrage of platitudes.”

“I'm trying to put some stiff in that upper lip of yours, Winchester. An old friend of yours is coming to call.”

“Oh?” Charles sighed, his eyes closed as he leaned his head back, feeling the vertebrae in his neck crack as he did so. 

“Colonel Horace Baldwin.”

Charles’ eyes snapped open and he stared at Colonel Potter sharply. “Horace Baldwin?” He felt suddenly so calmly serene, but absolutely tumultuous with rage at the same time, like he stood in the middle of a hurricane of emotion. “When?”

“Uh, sometime tonight.” Potter looked surprised at the calmness of Charles’ tone.

“Isn't that interesting? I haven't seen him since I left Tokyo.” Charles said, his fingers rubbing together to keep from shaking. 

“Well, I must say, you've got a tighter grip on your reins than I expected you would.” Potter smiled brightly. “I was sure you'd Vesuvius all over my office.”

“Oh, Colonel, what's the point in bearing a grudge?” Charles gave a laugh as he stood from his chair. 

“Glad to see you using some common sense.”

“What possible benefit could I derive from becoming angry over the impending arrival of the cretin who banished me to this _flea hatchery_?” Charles’ voice rose to a roar and he turned as if to storm out, only for Potter’s lean little body to get between him and the door to the reception area. “Just because I was forced to surrender the delights of Tokyo, where I could indulge in Kabuki and octopus?”

“Winchester, you're letting that goat of yours get got again!” Potter shouted over Charles’ own voice. 

“Have you ever savored the epicurean delight of fresh octopus?” Charles asked, staring at Potter, tempted to grab the man and shake him furiously.

“I don't care for any food that hangs on to the plate when you pick it up.”

“The injustice of it all! To banish me to this _vermin preserve_!” Charles pushed past Potter into the reception and Potter followed. “Just to avoid paying me the $600 he lost to me in a cribbage game!” Charles turned to face Potter, who was following him into the compound. “Ergo, when he arrives, I shall perform elective surgery on the first organ that presents itself!” He was causing a scene, and certainly it must have been quite entertaining to the enlisted and nursing staff, seeing their Chief Surgeon laughing somewhat hysterically. 

“Major, I've got a hospital to run, and I don't want Baldwin in it.” Potter shouted, glaring at Charles. 

“Oh, sir!” Charles glared at Potter. “This may be the only chance I have to savor the sweet fruit of revenge. I swear by all that is holy on Beacon Hill, I shall get _even_!”

“Winchester, ten‐hut!” Potter shouted and the command was so firm that Charles couldn’t help but snap to attention. “I need a volunteer to stay away from Colonel Baldwin, and you're it!”

“ _Sir_!”

“About face!” Charles snarled and turned away from Potter at the order. “Forward, skedaddle!” And stormed through the compound. 

Charles paced about the compound, looking angry enough to spit fire as he stewed and thought about revenge. 

“Major,” Maxwell’s voice drew him out of his haze and Charles turned, glaring angrily.

“You knew.”

“Just found out today, Colonel Potter said it would be best if you heard it from him.” Maxwell didn’t bother denying it as he looked up at Charles. The man automatically slowed his pace to match Maxwell’s smaller steps, offering his arm out of pure instinct. “You know, I happen to have a lot of experience in these matters.”

“I think that I know exactly what to do. An air embolism is impossible to prove.”

“Let me just ask you one question,” Maxwell stepped in front of Charles, the two of them standing on the very edge of the compound, right before the romantic view of the minefield. “How would you like for us to settle down in Tokyo for the rest of the war?”

“Tokyo? Japan?” Charles asked, skeptical as he stared down at his husband.

“That's right, the Pearl of the Orient. And all you have to do to win this contest is to know the three W's for getting ahead.” Maxwell held up three fingers in the shape of a W and began to tick off his fingers as he continued. “What to kiss, whose to kiss, and when to kiss it.”

Charles rankled at that, his teeth pulled back into a snarl as he stared at Maxwell, “Surely you are not proposing Horace Baldwin's-”

“The man who sent you here is the man who can take us away from all this.” Maxwell said with a grin. “Those egotistical types all have a price, Major baby. We just gotta find his.”

“I'd sooner bathe in pig swill!” Charles shouted like a lunatic, drawing the wary attention of others in the camp, but most of them had the good decency to keep walking away from the couple.

“Major, look at the big picture.” Maxwell held up his hand to Charles and slid it into the man’s own hand as if in greeting. “If you're smart, the only physical thing you'll greet Colonel Baldwin with is a handshake.” Charles scowled and Maxwell gave his hand a harder squeeze. “This situation calls for tact, diplomacy, and sucking up.” 

“Suck up? A Winchester?” Charles scoffed. 

Maxwell grinned up at Charles, tapping his husband on the tip of his wrinkled nose. “Remember, to grow a beautiful rose, sometimes you gotta shovel a lot of manure.”

* * *

There he was, the man who had sent Charles to this hell on earth, climbing out of his jeep and looking around the camp with a scowl. He looked just as cold and resentful as Charles remembered. He began to cross the compound to approach the man, Maxwell’s voice echoing in his mind, when Hunnicutt and Potter approached him to try and intercept him. Hunnicutt tried to block Charles off, holding an arm out across Charles’ chest. “Now don't be stupid, Winchester. Breaking a Colonel is seven years bad luck.” 

“Come on. It's not worth it.” Potter said, trying to grab at Charles’ elbow, only for the taller man to shrug his Colonel off. 

“Gentlemen, I know exactly what I'm doing.” Charles plastered a genial smile on his face as he held out his hand to the new arrival. “Colonel Baldwin, welcome to the 4077.” He shook the man’s hand firmly before releasing him, despite how much he longed for a scalpel in his grip. He was doing this for Maxwell. If he could get the both of them out of the 4077th, then it would be worth it. “It's wonderful to see you again.”

“Good to see you too.” Baldwin said absently before he raised a brow at Charles. “Who are you?”

Charles forced a brief chuckle, “Why, Major Charles Winchester, sir. I served under your fine tutelage at Tokyo General.” He clenched his fist inside his lab coat pocket. “We used to play cribbage together, you and I.”

“Ahh, now I remember.” Baldwin’s eyes sharpened and he gave a sharp smile. “I never met a man with better luck.”

Charles smiled, thinking of ripping Baldwin’s mustache clean off of his face. “That's all behind us now,” He turned and gestured to the other two doctors that had approached, Baldwin giving him a suspicious look that Charles ignored. “And Colonel Potter is in front of us, Captain Hunnicutt. Gentlemen, this is Colonel Baldwin, about whom I've told you _so_ much.”

“Colonel, nice to have you in our little corner of the war.” Colonel Potter shook the hand of Colonel Baldwin, and Hunnicutt gave a smile but no salute.

“Forgive us, we're medicine men.” Hunnicutt shook the Colonel’s hand. “Welcome to the reservation.”

“Aha! Colonel Baldwin, as you live and breathe, thank goodness.” Maxwell came over, flouncing in a black dress and his faux fur coat. “Major Winchester told me so much about your skills at cribbage.” Maxwell said with a charming smile.

Charles tried not to roll his eyes at Maxwell’s mischief. “Ah! Colonel, this is our esteemed company clerk Maxwell Klinger.” Charles rested his hand on the small of Maxwell’s back, the gesture hidden from Colonel Baldwin by the size of the coat. “Corporal, please take our guest to the V.I.P. tent, and do everything in your power to make him as comfortable as possible.”

“Read you loud and clear, O Most Gracious Host. Consider him comfortable.” Maxwell reached into the jeep to gather Baldwin’s bags.

“Thank you very much, Major.” Baldwin said, his eyes fixed on Maxwell quietly before he looked at Charles. 

“Oh, yes. Perhaps later we can play some cribbage.” Charles gave a forced smile to the Colonel, imagining smashing his head clean through the headlight of the jeep. “Give you a chance to get even with me, literally and figuratively.” 

“Kind of, uh, pressing your luck, aren't you?” Baldwin asked with a scowl.

“Well, if my incredible good fortune should run out, it would be an honor to lose to someone of your skill.” Charles bowed his head and gestured to Maxwell. “A thought for later, Colonel Baldwin.”

“This way, Your Vip‐ness.” Maxwell said with a bright, chipper grin. When the two men had disappeared towards the V.I.P. tent Charles turned and faced Potter and Hunnicutt, who were looking at him with a mixture of wary and amused looks.

“Major, you were kind, courteous, and every bit the gentleman.” Potter’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What do you have up your sleeve?”

Hunnicutt gave that same smug grin at Charles, “Maybe a gun. Does a Winchester carry a Derringer?”

Charles let out a huff and rolled his eyes. “Gentlemen, the answer is very simple. This morning I received some sage advice to forgive, forget, do unto others, et cetera.”

Potter pointed an accusatory finger at Charles. “Hold it! I was the one who gave out that advice, and I happen to know I was talking to myself.”

“Very observant, Colonel.” Charles removed his lab coat, prepared to return it to the lab before he cleaned up and visited Colonel Baldwin once he had settled in. “In all candor, I'm shoveling a little manure for my Tokyo Rose.” He gave a smug curl of his lips and waved his fingers of one hand at the two. “Bye.”

* * *

“You sure do seem fond of Tokyo.” Baldwin said as he held the cheque for $457.00 that Charles had cut for him after losing every single game of cribbage that he and Baldwin had played for the last three hours. The Colonel reminded Charles of a spoiled child who hated losing at games.

“Heh‐heh! Call me spoiled.” Charles said simply, flexing his fingers. It's just that I have, uh, an affinity for cities where the roof over one's head is not made of the same material as one's trousers.”

Baldwin took a sip of Charles’ good Napoleon brandy, scrounged by Maxwell not two weeks previous. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I hate to be away from Tokyo myself.” The Colonel placed the empty glass down and leaned back. “It gets lonely on the road…” The man got a gleam in his eye that Charles knew meant nothing good. “Perhaps you could find me some companionship.”

Charles’ face paled slightly at that. “Companionship?”

“Oh, come now, Charles.” The man stood and stared down at Charles, who suddenly felt as if the V.I.P. tent was too small, too suffocating. “We're both men of the world, officers, gentlemen. No fact‐finding tour is successful if all one uncovers is cold, impersonal data.” 

Charles stood and cleared his throat. “Am I to understand that you're looking for something a little warmer to uncover?”

“Heh! You understand perfectly.” The Colonel gave Charles’ shoulder a firm squeeze. “If, uh, anyone should be interested, I'll be in my tent all night, especially around 2330 hours.” Those steely eyes fixed on Charles, pinning him just as surely as Charles’ own butterflies were skewered. “Do your best, Charles, and I won't forget it.”

* * *

“Major!” Maxwell’s voice was high pitched and frantic as he raced into the crowded O Club, practically hiding behind Charles. The skirt of his dress was practically yanked free of the waist and he was missing his high heels, likely dropped in the mud of the compound as he made his escape from whatever had attacked him. Charles immediately stood and gathered Maxwell, seating him at the table and checking him over. There was a bruise already forming over his neck and jaw, the distinct palm-shaped impression bright red even on such dark skin.

“Klinger, what in the name of Teddy R. is going on?” Potter asked from where he and Hunnicutt were sitting with Charles, Maxwell, gripping at Charles’ shoulder.

“Colonel Baldwin, he-he,” Maxwell looked frantic. “I was trying to make him comfortable, like you said, and I brought him some extra blankets and a nightcap and he just - he _grabbed_ me! Not like the guys in post-op either, that’s just a little bit of exercise for them, he grabbed me and held onto me and wouldn’t let go, so I kicked him! Now he’s screaming about ”

Charles turned to the door of the O Club before Maxwell could finish his explanation, fully prepared to go and strangle the man, to feel the life whisper out between his fingers.

“Hold on, Winchester, calm down!” Potter stood, trying to stop the man that was twice his size as Baldwin came racing into the O Club, presumably to unruffle feathers. “Colonel Baldwin, good of you to join us, at least I don’t have to send the M.P.s out for you.” Potter turned to the man as Hunnicutt approached, standing just close enough that if Charles took a swing, he could stop him. 

“Ah, Colonel Potter. I would like to report this… _thing_.” Baldwin gestured to Maxwell, who hid behind Charles, quietly trying to keep himself out of the man’s line of sight. “He came into my tent and propositioned me, tried to weasel his way into getting sent home.” Baldwin gave Potter a firm look. “Offered perverse sexual favors in exchange for such action.”

“That’s a lie!” Maxwell shouted. “I came in there and you attacked me! He _ripped my dress_ , Colonel Potter!”

“Baldwin, this is a serious allegation, and unfortunately its your word against my clerk’s.”

“Of course not, I know that he came in, went to bat for his man, because of Major Winchester.”

“No, Colonel Baldwin.” Charles said quickly, before he could stop himself. “I have grovelled, I have put up with your abominable cribbage playing, I have given you some of the finest alcohol I own, I have done many things in order to be returned to that Pearl of the Orient, Tokyo, but I will not throw the good reputation of my husband into the mud for you!” Charles’ voice rose as he tried to push past the other surgeons to reach Baldwin. “I know he didn’t go to you because I paid a business girl from Rosie’s bar to go to your tent to assist with your fact finding mission as you requested!”

“Preposterous!” Baldwin said, his face going pale as he fidgeted. “I never asked for any such thing! That _creature_ assaulted me in my tent!”

“ _Assaulted_?” Maxwell shouted. “Who started it, Colonel?!”

“Baldwin,” Potter’s voice cut through the ruckus, deadly calm. “Corporal Maxwell Q. Klinger has been indispensable for this unit. He’s a top notch clerk, an excellent nurse, and a valuable corpsman, all rolled into one.” Potter’s eyes were steely grey as he glared at Baldwin. “And he might be many things, but a liar and a tart he is not.”

Baldwin looked between the group. “You’re going to take _his_ word for it?”

“Yes, and I’m sure you can explain your story to the M.P.’s.” Potter said as he stepped forward, his hands behind his back as he looked up at Baldwin, who looked more cornered than a rat in a trap. “Or you can leave right away. Don’t worry about your bags, we’ll send them to your next stop.”

Baldwin’s eyes flickered from Potter to Maxwell to Charles, to the Club at large before he turned and darted out the door. 

Charles’ shoulders slumped in relief when he heard the sound of the jeep tearing out of camp, turning to Maxwell, who looked up at him with a worried expression. 

“I’m sorry, Major. I messed up.”

“No, Maxwell,” Charles hugged his husband tightly before he sat down, drawing him protectively into his lap. “Whatever Baldwin’s devil price was, it was not worth putting you in his clutches.”

“But… Tokyo…” Maxwell pouted.

Charles sighed and hugged Maxwell closer. “Don’t fret, dear thing.”

“That’s right,” Potter said with a smile. “I’ll get you a pass to Tokyo.”

“Sir?” Charles asked, surprised. 

“You two could use it. And Klinger, as I recall, knows a lot of Generals who would be very interested to hear about a Colonel misbehaving and trying to smear his good name.”

Maxwell blinked before he grinned brightly. “That’s right… General Barker… And Hammond… Oh, General Imbrie!” Charles laughed in delight as Maxwell continued to list nearly every two-to-three star general in the Asian theater. “What are you waiting for, Colonel! Get us to Tokyo and Baldwin can have a few new facts to find out about when he gets back!”


	65. 38 Across

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles gives the 4077th a collection of New York Times crosswords in order to stave off the boredom, only to uncover some of Maxwell's worries.

Everyone loved hometown news, or any form of newspaper other than Stars and Stripes. No one loved newspapers more than Charles, who had subscriptions to the Boston Globe, the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and had even gotten a subscription for Maxwell of the Toledo Blade, though Maxwell only really read the sports pages of the newspaper.

When the usual doldrums of the war arrived, the inhabitants of the 4077th began to climb the walls and snap at one another in irritation.

Charles finally had enough when Colonel Potter decided to take a remedial driving course with Sergeant Rizzo and had nearly run over half of the tent with his careless driving. 

“What’s all this?” Potter asked as Charles began to pass out pages of newspaper. 

“I have been here for nearly three years, I have kept every single New York Times Sunday edition crossword puzzle since then in order to combat the boredom.” Charles handed another puzzle to another nurse. “There are 85 members of this unit, and the first person to complete a crossword in its entirety I’m going to reward with a picnic basket filled with the best upper class treats that my sister could cram into the box.”

 _That_ got the attention of everyone in the mess tent, and everyone started to look at the crosswords with more interest. 

“What the hell is a gay rake?” One of the corpsmen asked loudly, and before Charles could stop himself he called over.

“A Lothario. Like Pierce.” He provided before he cleared his throat. “You can trade the puzzles if you like, but remember its the person who turns in the completed one that I’ll give the basket.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” The corpsman grinned, saluting Charles, who rolled his eyes and smiled at the man.

“Consider that first question a freebie.” Charles said simply, smiling at the other man before he turned to make more deliveries, passing out to every single one of the staff before he made his way into post op to give the patients an opportunity to relieve some boredom. 

“What’s this?”

“Newspapers.” Charles said simply. “Some older issues, but you can trade the papers, and if you require more entertainment then inform the nurses and I’ll give them more.”

When Charles arrives back at the O Club, Maxwell was smoking a cigar, seated in his customary place at the bar as Straminsky served him a shot of ouzo. 

“So, how did the mission of mercy go, Major baby?” Maxwell asked, smoothing a hand over the crossword in front of him, tapping his pencil against the edge of the newspaper.

“Oh, it went fine.” Charles smiled as he sat beside Maxwell, waving down Straminsky behind the bar. “Your finest wine, please.”

Straminsky obeyed, pouring a glass even as he said, “Last time I gave it to ya you called it radiator fluid.”

“Perhaps I’ve acquired a taste for it.” Charles took a sip, only to freeze at the vile, almost-vinegar taste on his tongue. He stared at Straminsky and then swallowed the mouthful. “Delicious.” He wheezed before he placed the glass aside and turned to Maxwell. “How goes the crossword?”

“I… Am not very good at it.” Maxwell confessed, looking defeated. “These are all too fancy for me. Like… 73 across? The clue is a five letter word for a French painter in 1832 to 1883!”

Charles answered before he could stop himself. “Manet. M-A-N-E-T.”

Maxwell sighed and wrote in the answer. “But I can’t figure out any of these other ones! I feel… Stupid.” He whispered the last part and Charles knew that he was hearing so many other voices that had hurled the insult at him time and time again.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not correct.” Charles slid the newspaper over so that it rested between them. “You know this one, surely? What is a three letter word for a Japanese copper coin?”

“A rin.” Maxwell said quickly, blinking at that before he looked up at Charles, who smiled fondly at him.

“See? Maxwell, you’re not stupid. You do know things, but these newspapers are known to be particularly difficult with their crosswords. I myself have never finished one.” 

Maxwell jumped as he stared at Charles. “What?”

“Why do you think I told the other staff that they could trade the puzzles?” Charles asked with a smile. “So why don’t you and I sit down and work on this one together?” Charles looked down at the crossword. “69 across, an African lily?”

“Calla lily.” Maxwell supplied, writing it in before he asked Charles. “What would your parents think of me?”

“Does it matter?”

“If we met in Boston… Then I probably wouldn’t have been allowed to walk in the streets of Beacon Hill.” Maxwell worried his lower lip and Charles gently pressed his fingers to Maxwell’s lips, drawing his lower lip from the bruising grip of teeth. “I mean… If I’m not good enough to get even half of these answers right, I’m definitely not cultured enough to be a _Winchester_.”

Charles smiled at Maxwell. “Would you like to know a family secret?”

“Sure,” Maxwell sighed as he looked at the crossword.

“Honoria has been married three times. Once to a farmer. Once to a shoe sales clerk. Her latest ex-husband was an Italian who… We are still not quite sure what exactly he did for a living.” 

Maxwell looked at Charles, sighing before he shook his head. “At least they were born Americans. I’m an immigrant, English isn’t even my first language, and I didn’t even graduate high school, got drafted before I could finish.” He fiddled with his pencil. “I couldn’t even tell you a five letter word for Ceremonies.”

“Rites. R-I-T-E-S.” Charles said simply before he cleared his throat and shook his head. “Maxwell, when we return to the States you will be a veteran, and you will be my husband in all but religious ceremony.” Long fingers cupped Maxwell’s sharp jaw, and tilted his head for a soft kiss, ignoring Straminsky as the man worked through his own crossword puzzle. “You have never had money, but I will have you know that money is the key that opens nearly all doors. Whatever you wish to study, I can pay for the classes, wherever you wish to go, I can buy us a home there.”

“I can’t just ride on your money,” Maxwell said as he fiddled with the crossword. “73 down, Euripides Drama?”

“Medea. M-E-D-E-A.” Charles said simply. “You _can_ work, Maxwell. Absolutely if that is what you desire. You can design gowns for high society or wait tables at a delicatessen, but just know that as my husband you do not _have_ to.” Charles looked at the questions. “Ah, here is one that I know you know. 67 across, a four letter word for transgresses.”

“Transgress… Sins.” Maxwell said simply. “Forgive us our transgressions, that we may forgive those who transgress against us.”

“You were raised Catholic?” Charles asked with surprise. Every day he learned something new about Maxwell. He had known the man as an atheist, despite his close friendship with Father Mulcahy.

“Catholic on my father’s side, Muslim on my mother’s.” Maxwell gave a brief laugh and a shrug. “Went to the church on Sundays and the jama masjid on Fridays.” Maxwell fumbled with the pencil. “Then when I got sent here I learned that there can’t be a god worth worshiping if he allowed war to happen.” Charles touched Maxwell’s hand gently, and the younger man straightened. “A five letter Greek letter has a G and an A at the end.”

“Omega. O-M-E-G-A.” Charles supplied, looking down at the newspaper as Maxwell filled in the word. “Bao Dai’s land, with a V at the beginning.”

“Vietnam?” Maxwell asked as he squinted at the paper. “How do you spell that one?”

“V-I-E-T-N-A-M.” Charles helpfully supplied before he gripped Maxwell’s hand, making the younger man drop the pencil on the bar top. “Maxwell, you are more than enough for me as you are. Whatever you do, whatever you wish to pursue, I will support you.”

Those dark, doe-like eyes fixed on Charles and he gave a small, questioning look up at the man. “How can you be so sure? You have… If you marry me then your reputation is destroyed, bridges are burned with your family. You could lose _everything_. With me… I didn’t have much to lose in the first place.”

Ignoring Straminsky eavesdropping a few feet away, Charles leaned in and kissed Maxwell gently, drawing him close until the younger man shivered and melted into his arms. “Maxie,” Charles whispered, the name softened to something sweet that made the younger man melt in his grip, those dark eyes looking up at Charles worriedly. “I could never regret you. I promised from now until death do us part.” Blue eyes fixed on Maxwell’s own firmly and Charles kissed him, watching as the younger man’s eyes fluttered shut. “And I intend to keep that promise.”


	66. Baby, It's Cold Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas is quite the event in the 4077th, especially when Charles has to keep Maxwell's light fingers from finding his Christmas present.

“Has the mail come yet, Father Mulcahy?” Charles asked quickly. 

“Ah, not yet.” The priest smiled as he sat on his lawn chair in the compound. “Of all of my duties, I find that this one is my favorite! It allows me to greet and speak with every single member of the 4077th.”

“And ask for donations on behalf of the orphans?” Charles asked with a smile. 

“Of course,” Mulcahy grinned as he looked at the man, holding out his hand playfully.

Charles cleared his throat and looked at Mulcahy before he whispered. “Father, might I… I ask a favor of you?”

“Of course.” The man said with a gentle smile and Charles was grateful for the Catholic priest and his unending kindness. “What is it, Charles?”

“I… There is a tradition of my family to deliver chocolate to orphanages on the eve of Christmas so that they might have something to eat.” Charles cleared his throat. “But… it is inappropriate to give candy to children who have had no dinner.” He pulled out his wallet and held out a bundle of military scrip. “So I ask that in my stead you buy them what they need… And then buy them what they don’t need.”

“Ah! Major Winchester, thank you!” Father Mulcahy looked curiously up at him. “And what else do you require of me, Major?”

Charles flushed at being so transparent. “Ah, well… If you see the mail come, please try to intercept it before Maxwell sees? I don’t wish him to see the name of the package I have ordered.”

Mulcahy smiled at such a simple request. “Of course, our secret.”

“I knew I could trust a priest with this.” Charles said as he nodded at Father Mulcahy.

* * *

“So really, I’d better scurry,” Maxwell sang as he sorted papers, singing along to Charles’ record player he had hooked up to the P.A. to play a series of Christmas records all donated from the various personnel that had received records from home. 

“Beautiful, please don’t hurry,” Charles called as he stepped in. 

Maxwell whirled, smiling at him as he wore a Christmas red dress decorated with rich green embroidery of mistletoe, the white berries made by white pearl-shaped beads. He wore mistletoe in his hair, an entire wreath of the poisonous weed, and Charles couldn’t help but smile at the sight. The young man reached forward and kissed Charles before he sang along with the tune, “Well maybe just a half a drink more.”

“I’ll put some records on while I pour,” Charles sang, kissing the young man as he drew Maxwell into a dance. 

“The neighbours might think…” Maxwell kissed Charles’ cheek gently as he draped his arms over Charles’ shoulders.

“Baby, it’s bad out there.” Charles purred, cradling his husband close, their movements slowing as they listened to the record play on, swaying softly back and forth as Ricardo Montalban and Esther Williams sang their duet on the record. 

“Mail call!” A voice called and Charles whirled, releasing Maxwell, who spun so fast that his skirt billowed about his legs. 

“Ah, yes, indeed!” Charles grabbed the bag from the corporal from I-Corps. “I shall deliver this to Father Mulcahy.”

“Oh?” Maxwell asked as he smiled at Charles, trying to grab hold of the bag from Charles. “What has got you so excited about this?” Maxwell’s eyes were bright and playful as he stared up at his husband. 

“Nothing, I simply said I would assist Father Mulcahy in his duties as mailman.”

“There is something in that bag isn’t there?” Maxwell said with a grin. “Is it a present?”

“No such thing!” Charles raced into the compound, hauling the bag over his shoulder. The two of them must have made quite the sight, racing across the compound, Charles hauling a mail bag and Maxwell dressed with mistletoe.

“I’ll find it, Charles!” Maxwell shouted as he raced, lightfooted like a deer as he caught up with Charles. “There is not a lock made that I cannot open!”

* * *

The box had been hidden across the compound in nearly half a dozen places by the time Maxwell discovered it. 

“ _Bergdorf Goodman’s_?” Maxwell shouted as Charles entered the tent, the man freezing at the sight of Maxwell holding the box aloft. “What is it? What is it?”

“Maxwell, it is a Christmas gift.” Charles raised a brow. “That I had entrusted to Colonel Potter’s care.”

“Ah, but you recall that I deliver Colonel Potter’s laundry.” Maxwell grinned even more widely, clutching the box to his chest. “What is it? What?”

“You have shown great self control in not opening it to find out.” Charles smiled at Maxwell, taking the box from Maxwell and placing it aside. “But it is still two days to even Christmas eve, darling.”

Maxwell stamped his heels as he looked up at Charles. “That’s so unfair!”

“I believe that you can wait.” Charles said with a smile, staring at Maxwell’s wide, pleading eyes. 

Maxwell stared at Charles before a sly smile spread across his face. “Is it something I wear?”

“Yes, of course.”

“So already made.”

“Yes.”

“It’s too heavy to be underthings.” Maxwell smirked up at Charles. 

“Perhaps I padded the box with newspapers to make it weigh more.” Charles said with a smirk. 

Maxwell seemed to pause at that before he lifted the box and shook it, staring at Charles with narrowed eyes. “Hmmm… A dress? Silk?”

“You’ll find out on Christmas Eve, won’t you?” Charles said with a smirk. 

Maxwell stared at the man before he echoed Charles’ smirk. “Can I convince you, baby?” Maxwell slid into Charles’ arms, his own arms draped over Charles’ shoulders, drawing the man close. “After all, I already have something very nice for you in my stockings.”

Charles raised a brow at Maxwell. “Really?” He slid his hand beneath Maxwell’s dress, this one made of a red tartan threaded through with thin lines of green, a massive green ribbon tied about his waist as if he himself was the present for Charles. “And what might you do in order to, ah, convince me?”

Maxwell slid his palms over Charles’ shoulders, his chest, his stomach, until his hands undid the button and zip of Charles’ fatigues. “I have a few ideas.” Charles gripped at Maxwell’s wrists as the young man knelt, grinning up at Charles silently as the young man stroked Charles slowly. “Am I on the right track?”

Charles groaned as he gripped Maxwell’s hair, ruining the style and knocking the festive circlet of felt holly leaves and berries that Maxwell had made out of place. He couldn’t help the huff of air that left him when those perfect, soft lips wrapped around him and slowly teased, tongue and fingers moving in a well-practiced manner that Charles regretted teaching the younger man almost as often as he reveled in it. 

“I thought you said my gift was in your stockings.” Charles groaned, his fingers still tangled tightly in dark strands. 

Maxwell smirked right up at him, his lips curled, feline-delighted, before he slowly pulled off of Charles and stood, lifting his skirt to show off envy-green garters and matching garter belt contrasted by a bright red pair of underthings. Charles could hardly be expected to resist such a treat, so really Maxwell shouldn’t have let out such a surprised little noise as he was shoved onto their bed, his legs lifted and held over Charles’ shoulders as he man knelt and pressed his mouth to warm skin, dampening fine lace and making Maxwell’s legs flex and tense as he bit at tender inner thighs. 

“Charles!” Maxwell whined, his head thrown back his throat working frantically to swallow down air as Charles bit and bruised and worried dark marks into smoothly-shaven skin. “Didn’t think you’d be so excited about this sort of thing after nearly three years.” Maxwell panted, staring down at Charles as the older man looked up at him with eager eyes.

“I can hardly be blamed.” Charles said simply as he sucked another mark into warm skin, his fingers laying bruises into Maxwell’s hips as the younger man squirmed against him. “You’re a feast of my desires, no matter how many times I get to glut myself on you.”

Maxwell moaned and shivered, gripping at the bedding beneath him. “Don’t say things like that, I’m gonna… You know…” Maxwell flushed and Charles couldn’t help but grin, knowing the affect his voice saying filth had on the younger man.

“What?” Charles teased, pushing Maxwell’s underwear down his lean legs. “You’re going to orgasm for me? Fall apart?” He pressed his mouth to Maxwell’s length, licked and sucked until the younger man was thrashing beneath him before his palm pressed to the fluttering line of Maxwell’s belly, holding him down easily as he tongued and teased every inch he could reach. 

“ _Fuck_ , Charles, please, please.” Maxwell panted, his head thrown back as he allowed himself to be tasted and ravaged until he was slick and dripping and trembling, desperate for completion, some sort of relief.

Charles stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist before he licked at two fingers in order to more easily sink them into Maxwell’s open, eager body. He smirked as those dark eyes rolled back and Maxwell gripped at Charles’ own shoulders, holding on for dear life as Charles thrust his fingers tortuously slow. Each pass of long, skillful fingers over tender walls made the younger man whine, his hips giving small, aborted thrusts as Charles indulged his own desire to see Maxwell squirm. 

By the time Maxwell was a whining, babbling mess he was only halfway coherent. Charles was no expert, but he was sure he was being cursed at in Arabic, with Maxwell only able to form a handful of words that included Charles’ name, “more”, “fuck”, and “faster”.

Charles leaned in, curling his fingers more insistently against the sensitive spot he had spent so long tormenting, and whispered, “Good girl, Maxie, why don’t you let me see you come?”

It was an order that the younger man was helpless to do anything but obey.

* * *

Christmas Eve came and Maxwell smiled as the orphans came to dinner at the mess tent, a potluck feast of the generosity of the entire 4077th. Charles couldn’t help but smile back at the younger man, bundled in his brand new mink coat and cuddled against Charles’ side, drinking the rot-gut punch that Hunnicutt had provided from the still that remained in the Swamp. 

“So, Major Winchester,” Father Mulcahy smiled. “I see that you weren’t able to keep Klinger’s quick fingers away from his present.”

“It is quite alright, Father,” Charles said with a quiet curl of his lips. “He gave me my Christmas stocking early, it’s only fair that Maxwell get his own.”

“Delightful!” Father Mulcahy laughed. “What was in it?”

“Oh, a little bit of this, a little bit of that.” Charles smiled as he held Maxwell close. “It was the best gift I had received in quite some time.”

The younger man flushed and gave Charles’ chest a swat. “I might as well not even give you your real gift!” He teased. 

“Oh?’ Charles asked, his voice lilting in delight at the softly teasing tone of the younger man. 

Maxwell scurried over to the Christmas tree set up in the furthest corner of the Mess Tent and came back with a box carefully wrapped in old Boston Globe newspapers. Charles tore the paper off and smiled when he peeled open battered cardboard. Only to freeze and stare in wide-eyed wonder at the sight of a portrait of himself and Maxwell, painted in the style of old-world aristocracy. Charles stood behind a chair that Maxwell sat delicately in, the two of them staring at the viewer with quiet, soft smiles. 

“I asked Colonel Potter to paint it. And I took some photos for him for reference.”

“Ah, that explains your brief obsession with that camera the patient gave Hunnicutt.” Charles smiled as he held the painting. “It’s perfect, Maxwell.”

“We can get a real frame for it in Boston.” Maxwell smiled as he kissed Charles. “A Potter original will probably go for millions down the line.”

Charles chuckled and returned the kiss, cradling Maxwell’s jaw gently. “As if I could ever part with it.”


	67. Cementing Relationships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles finds himself the object of a rather amorous Italian's attentions.

“De Simone, what's wrong?” Charles said as he checked the man’s leg, making sure the color looked healthy and the nerves still responded to the light touch of his pen against the man’s sole. “You should be very happy, your leg's doing beautifully, some of my best work.” 

The Italian scoffed and waved a crumpled letter in the air, staring at Charles angrily. “Only one thing would make me happy now.”

Charles sighed, he knew the look of a man who had received bad news. “What's that?”

“If that shrapnel ‐ how you say in America - killed me dead as a doorknob.” De Simone snapped, dramatically throwing his arm over his face.

“De Simone, you have everything to live for, more so than most since soon, you'll be returning to Italia.” Charles hummed and smiled to himself, thinking of long summers spent in Europe, traveling with his grandparents. “Warm summer nights at the Trevi Fountain in Roma. The Carnival season in Venezia. Luncheons in the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II in Milano. A long walk along the Ponte Vecchio in Firenze.”

“I know all of that and more.” De Simone snapped, glaring at Charles now. “My leg, I will get over, but today, this has smashed my heart to figurines.”

“Here, let me see,” Charles held out his hand and the letter was passed to him. He couldn’t speak Italian, but he recognized how brief the letter was. It seemed that even the romance languages were well suited to short but painful missives. 

“A "Dear Giovanni" letter.” De Simone moaned. “My Angela, she left me. She throw me up for another man. One with bigger lira.”

“Well, I think she made a big mistake.” Charles said simply as he handed back the letter. Comfort was not his specialty, and certainly there was some cultural and language differences at play in this rather difficult conversation. He worried that he might make the situation worse, as he was wont to do, and placing a man on suicide watch was always difficult in a camp that was stretched too thin as it was. 

“I am a De Simone! My Angela. How could she do this to me?”

“Believe me, you'll meet somebody else.” Charles reassured the man idly, making notes on the chart. “You are a strong, virile, handsome man. Why, any woman would be lucky to have you. This… What was her name? Angela?”

“Si, Angela, Angela, _Angela_ ,” De Simone lamented the woman’s name, tossing the letter aside.

“Angela clearly could not spot quality.” Charles crossed one leg over his knee and looked at the Italian. “Where do you hail from?”

“Roma.” The man supplied, looking at Charles with a curious gleam in his eye that Charles could not quite place.

“One day you will return to Rome and you shall walk down the streets a hero returned from the war and women and men alike will fall at your feet for the opportunity to spend a fraction of your time with you.” 

De Simone paused, staring up at Charles before a slow grin spread across his face. “What is it, your name?”

“Charles Emerson Winchester III.” Charles said as he stood, dusting off his white lab coat as he looked over the chart and wrote the last details of the man’s discharge.

"Ah... Calogero." The man grinned up at Charles, and that expression told the man that he had misstepped somewhere in his attempts at comforting the Italian. The man gripped Charles’ hand and drew it to his mouth, offering a kiss to his knuckles that made Charles attempt to pull his hand away rather quickly, only for the wounded man to fix a surprisingly strong grip on Charles’ fingers. “Always I'll be grateful to you, Calogero. When I was, how you say, beside myself, you come and sit down next to me, beside myself.”

“I'm glad I could help.” Charles said simply, managing to extricate his hand. His attempt at comfort had backfired quite spectacularly, and his original purpose for coming to the man seemed to be the only way to escape being the new focus of the man’s passion. “You'll be rejoining your unit the day after tomorrow.”

“Ah, then that day I have an empty room in the pensione of my life, the one where Calogero, he used to live.”

“De Simone-” Charles started, realizing quickly what the rather hot-blooded Italian was thinking, even before the words were said.

“If only I do not have to go.” The wounded man stared up at Charles with dark, hopeful eyes.

“We cannot always get what we want.” Charles said simply, moving to place the chart back at the foot of De Simone’s bed.

De Simone purred, staring up at Charles as the man moved away from the hospital bed. “But we could spend long hours together. Walks on the moonlight, picnics at the country, sunsets in the beach.”

“This is Korea.” Charles said wryly.

“When you have amore, there is no Korea.” De Simone said ardently, leaning forward to try and snatch up Charles’ hand again. 

“De Simone, I insist that you desist in this foolishness.” Charles snapped, glaring down at the man. “I am a married man, your doctor, and a _Major_ in the United States Army. Don’t make me order you to behave.”

“Capisco.” The man gave a more sly look to Charles. “A De Simone is nothing if not discreet.”

That was not reassuring in the slightest.

* * *

Maxwell and Charles both bolted upright in bed at the sound of a very poor attempt at an imitation of “Possente Amor Mi Chiama”. 

“What in the name of all that is holy is _that_?” Maxwell asked wearily, frowning as he adjusted his hairnet over his curlers. 

“A rather ardent admirer that I am attempting to dissuade.” Charles growled as he threw the covers off and dressed in his blue robe, walking out of the tent and into the compound. “ _De Simone_!” He hissed at the man. 

“Calogero‐”

“Corpsman De Simone,” Charles snapped, his most imperious tone echoing enough through the compound that he could hear movement. “Go to bed!” 

“Ah, si, si, si, si.” The man moved towards the door of Charles’ tent and Charles immediately stopped him, gripping at his arm tightly. De Simone leaned into Charles’ chest, grinning up at him. “Ah, Calogero, mi amore.”

“I'm not your mi amore, and you're supposed to be in post‐op.” Charles snapped, giving the man’s arm a firm shake.

“How can I be in post‐op when my heart is here?” De Simone lamented loudly, draping his arm around Charles’ shoulders dramatically as if he expected Charles’ arms to wrap around him in turn. 

“Well, your heart is off‐limits, soldier.” Charles snapped. He could hear Maxwell rustling around in the tent, and moved to try and remove the ardent Italian from his person. 

“Why for you drive me crazy like this?” De Simone simpered, one hand brushing over Charles’ jaw and neck. “You say I cannot kiss you with other peoples around, so I come here.” He tried to steal such a kiss only for Charles to jerk back, extricating himself from the other man’s grip. “You are toying with me like a cat with a dead moose.”

“No, you misunderstand, I wasn't trying to encourage you.” Charles held his hands out at arms length, trying to circle away from the man. “I am a married man!”

“A De Simone does not need encouragement.” The Italian lunged forward, gripping Charles’ wrist and kissing his palm, smirking against the skin as Charles tried to jerk away. “You have filled the cup of my passion with sweet wine.”

“No, you're just on the rebound from Angela.” Charles said simply. “De Simone, I do not do wartime flings, now you shall return to your bed or I will be forced to take more drastic official action against you!”

“Oh, she is nothing. She is a child. But you?” De Simone seemed to completely ignore Charles’ words as he stepped closer. “You… You are a man. My bellissimo. _Il mio bell'uomo con mani così aggraziate_.”

Charles jerked back as the man kissed him, shoving at De Simone’s chest in an attempt to get the man away, only for a strong hand to grip the back of his neck.

“Charles!” Maxwell’s voice shouted and De Simone pulled back, turning to blink in confusion at the sight of Maxwell, his curlers removed dressed in one of his simpler getups thrown on as quickly as he could so that he was decent in front of the Italian soldier. “Alright, soldier, let my husband go!”

“ _You_?” The man sputtered. “But you are not a woman! You cannot be married to this man.”

“Now isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black,” Charles muttered as he adjusted his rumpled robe.

“You see this rock? Right here?” Maxwell brandished his fist, his wedding ring held right in front of De Simone’s face, standing a full head shorter than the soldier but fuming with rage as he glared up at the man. “I’m gonna send it right into your eye! Now back off and leave my husband alone, he’s well beyond taken!”

“I shall fight you for this man’s love!” De Simone shouted, turning away from Charles to Maxwell.

“Oh no you won’t,” Charles snapped, gripping Maxwell and pulling him away from the ardent admirer that Charles had somehow acquired. “De Simone, this is my husband, he is the beneficiary of all of my military benefits, as well as a dozen other legal loopholes. I am not going to just leave him for you, nor will I have an affair.” Charles wondered if calling the M.P.s might solve his problems. “De Simone, just go back to bed.”

The man dug his heels in, glaring at the two. “No! There is nothing that you can say that would make me change my mind!”

There was silence for a moment before Charles said simply. “I am Presbyterian and I refuse to convert.”

 _That_ seemed to catch the man’s attention and De Simone fell to his knees dramatically as Colonel Potter rounded the corner with Hunnicutt and Houlihan. “Ah! Mi amore! How could you?”

Charles sighed and rubbed his eyes as Potter shouted, “What in the name of Teddy R. going up San Juan Hill is going on here?”

“Nothing, Colonel Potter, just an affair that never was going sour.” Charles said. “Please, call the M.P.s, get him back to bed, anything, I just cannot deal with this man’s dramatics any longer.”

It was a few long minutes, but soon the compound was emptied of audience members and one romantically inclined Italian. Charles and Maxwell returned to their tent and Charles sighed as he undressed once more and laid down in their bed.

“What the hell was that?” Maxwell demanded, giving Charles’ shoulder a swat. “I undid my curlers for that! And found out that some Italian had fallen in love with you?”

“Yes, it was trying for me as well.” Charles sighed as he watched Maxwell slip out of his sheath dress, changing back into his soft cotton nightgown. “He was infatuated by the idea of a romance, not with me. He got a Dear John letter and latched onto me for… Whatever his testosterone-fueled mind concocted.” 

Maxwell didn’t seemed convinced, standing beside the bed with his hands on his hips and glaring down at Charles. “I suppose that makes sense.” He gave a snort. “You lost your mind and spent a week writing Honoria when she tried to marry an Italian, I should have known that this wasn’t your idea.”

“I apologized for my insensitive attitude towards that situation,” Charles said simply. “I will not apologize for my attempts to get rid of De Simone.”

“Oh no, don’t apologize for that.” Maxwell slid into Charles’ lap, clearly coming to a conclusion about his feelings on the situation. “Besides, I’m the only swarthy olive picker that you’re allowed to court, seduce, and marry.” He leaned close to kiss Charles, smirking against his lips. “But you’ll have to reassure me that I’m an exception to your previously established rules of who is acceptable to marry.”

Charles’ arm slid over Maxwell’s waist, drawing the man down for a long, slow kiss. “Of course, my darling,” Charles murmured against soft lips, his fingers tangling in Maxwell’s unstyled curls. “That man could never replace you, my sweet girl, my handsome man, and everything in between.”


	68. Communication Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mail is not coming in or going out of the 4077th. This leads to high tensions, especially from those whose only escape is letters from home.

“Has the mail come yet, Klinger?” Hunnicutt asked with the desperate look of a man who was hanging onto sanity by a feeble thread.

Charles looked up from where he was assisting Klinger in refiling the system, the younger man sitting among a sea of paperwork trying to get it all into date order while Charles alphabetized previously disorganized messes of files. He had one of Maxwell’s one-cent cigars clamped between his teeth, puffing away while Maxwell drank a warm beer from the O Club.

“No mail yet, just like the last three weeks.” Maxwell said with a sigh. “Nothing from I-Corps on the subject, and believe me I’ve been asking for weeks. I put in an order for some Firmin buttons and those are not cheap!”

“Damnit, Klinger, isn’t there _someone_ you can call?” Hunnicutt asked and Charles turned, glaring at the other surgeon.

“Calm down, Hunnicutt.” Charles scowled at the man, who merely glared back at him. “Maxwell cannot control the speed at which the mail is delivered any more than he can control how many wounded we get on a daily basis.”

“Trust me, Captain Hunnicutt, when we get the mail, and we will, but when we get it I’ll make sure to deliver your mail first!” Maxwell stepped in, trying to get between the two surgeons who had been at one another’s throats for the past few months. Ever since Pierce had left, Charles had noticed Hunnicutt’s mood sour more and more. He understood it, truly he did. If Maxwell had been sent home months before Charles then he would have likely been climbing the walls within three hours. The Captain had lost his best friend and now he had lost all access to said friend as well as his wife and child. 

“Don’t tell me to calm down, all I have in this hellhole is the mail and now I don’t even have that! We have wounded coming in here every damn day and I-Corps isn’t even telling us what’s going on to cause it!”

“Hunnicutt,” Potter called as he stepped out of his office. “I understand your frustration, but abusing the company clerk very rarely results in anything good coming your way.”

“Look, Colonel Potter, it’s no trouble, they’re still letting phone calls go out, I can pop Hunnicutt through to San Francisco for a five minute call and no one would be any wiser.”

“I don’t _want_ five minutes, Klinger!” Hunnicutt shouted, grabbing the bag of phone and moving to throw it into the compound.

“Oh no you don’t!” Maxwell grabbed the phone and held onto it tightly. “Look, this thing is held together with bobby pins, medical tape, and the hopes and dreams of small children!” He jerked the bag out of Hunnicutt’s grip and held it protectively close. “It is very fragile!”

Hunnicutt glared at Maxwell and looked like he was ready to spew more venom before Charles snapped, “Go drown in your still, Hunnicutt, you’re not helping here.”

The surgeon glared at Charles and then at Potter and Maxwell before he turned and stormed out of the reception area and back across the compound, the loud sound of him kicking a trash can filling the air.

* * *

Without the distraction of mail the entire camp turned to self-destruction. And when self-destruction failed they turned, like clockwork, to destroying the camp.

It started with the uniforms of wounded Chinese soldiers that were brought to the M*A*S*H*, infested with lice, and Rizzo and Zale were given the task of piling up and burning the uniforms. Charles watched from post-op as they poured gasoline on the piles of clothing, and then hesitated, before tossing an empty crate onto the pile. Followed by another. Then another. Then there was more gasoline poured, an extra canvas of a tent followed, then a pile of blood-soaked surgical gowns that were beyond saving. 

“What is this?” Charles asked as he and Maxwell walked across the compound, dressed in some of Maxwell’s lavish creations in order to give some semblance of polite society. With the turn of the weather from freezing cold to burning hot, Maxwell had made Charles a white linen suit and himself a matching filmy gown. He held a parasol that Honoria had previously sent him over his shoulder, his free hand tucked into Charles’ elbow as they walked. 

“Oh, we’re burning the Chinese uniforms, sir!” 

Charles stared at the pile of debris before he said, “I have never seen a Chinese soldier wear an American ladder as a uniform, but I suppose anything is possible.”

* * *

Hunnicutt was drunk in the O Club and Charles sat, sipping at his cognac and watching Maxwell work behind the bar, playing the flirtatious barmaid to perfection as he worked. Hunnicutt had spent the last hour, it seemed, viciously driving away anyone who wanted to give the man comfort, instead playing at the pinball machine and challenging people to bets that they were foolish to take. Charles watched the man quietly and Hunnicutt caught his gaze, the man coming over and practically sloshing into the chair beside Charles’, glaring at him.

“What are you staring at?”

“A drunken fool, I believe.” Charles said simply. “Cognac?”

“Sure, if you’re buying.” Charles poured a glass and it was thrown back like Hunnicutt’s homemade gin. “You know what I hate about you, Winchester?”

“Oh, there’s specific reasons?” Charles asked as he sipped at his own drink, moving the bottle away from Hunnicutt’s grip. “Goodie.”

“You’re the man who has everything. _Everything_. You’ve rubbed that into my face since the day I got here. Money can buy you everything you want, but a ticket home.” Hunnicutt glared at Charles, swaying even as he sat in his chair. “Why the _hell_ are you still here? Making everyone’s lives miserable?” Hunnicutt stumbled to his feet and kicked at the table, sending the bottle cognac shattering on the ground as Charles reflexively lifted his glass and watched the furniture tumble to the ground. Everyone in the O Club turned to look at the two men, frozen in place as they witnessed what was certain to be an ugly fight. 

“Hunnicutt, this is unbecoming of you as both an officer and a surgeon, not to mention the shattered remains of your reputation as a gentleman.” Charles stood, placing his cognac on the jukebox in an attempt to placate the other man. 

“You should have been sent home, Hawk should have stayed!” Hunnicutt shouted, glaring at Charles as the man stared at him impassively. “They should have just sent you home, given you your _fucking_ discharge that you’ve wanted so badly and you could have gone home!”

“In disgrace, branded a homosexual along with Maxwell, who would not have his military benefits to fall back on.” Charles said simply, quietly, trying to diffuse the situation. 

Hunnicutt grabbed the cognac glass from the jukebox and threw it at Charles, the liquid covering the man as the glass shattered against the wall.

“That’s it, _out_!” Straminsky shouted, the only time that a Private was able to order around officers, and Charles gripped Hunnicutt along with Straminsky, practically lifting the struggling man away from the O Club. “Where do I put him, Major?”

“The Swamp will be fine,” Charles said simply. “Don’t call the M.P.’s, I’ll handle this.”

“What about Colonel Potter?” Straminsky asked as he opened the door to the Swamp.

“Tell him I’m dealing with it.” Charles said simply, closing the door on the Private before he turned back to the Captain that was sulking towards the still. “Hunnicutt, don’t.”

“Shut up.” Hunnicutt snarled, knocking back a drink of the alcohol.

“Hunnicutt-”

“I said _shut up_!” Hunnicutt turned and landed a punch on Charles’ jaw, sloppily and glancing off the man’s face, but Charles reacted quickly, punching Hunnicutt in the eye. “ _Fuck_!”

The man collapsed on his cot, clutching his face and in a moment his drunken, furious shaking had turned to sobs, pain bringing all of the tears he had held back to the surface. Charles stared at the man, alone in the entire camp, his wife, his best friend, his daughter all thousands of miles away. 

Charles sat down in the chair beside Hunnicutt’s bed, staring at the other man silently for a few long moments before he said softly, “I do not know what specifically I did to earn your hatred, Hunnicutt, but believe me when I say that I want to help you.”

“I don’t hate you.” Hunnicutt whispered, scowling as he rubbed his eye. “I just… I envy you.”

Charles thought about it before his eyes softened and he reached out. “Pierce?”

“Yeah.”

“A difficult love, but not an unrequited one.”

“I love Peg too much to leave her. And Erin.” Hunnicutt sighed. “And I couldn’t… Not to Peg. It would break her heart if she found out, if I did anything.”

Charles was silent for a long time, watching the other surgeon before he sighed. “Hunnicutt… It is an unwinnable situation to try and have it all. Believe me when I say that even the man who has it all does not truly have all of it. For instance,” He leaned back. “My family, other than my sister, will never love me. Their support of me is purely conditional. When we return to Boston, Maxwell and I will likely be faced with an entirely different type of warfare from my parents and extended family, who all wish me dead a war hero than living as a homosexual.”

Hunnicutt looked at Charles, his eyes searching the man’s face. “How do you do it? How do you not… _hate_ yourself for the feelings?”

“I do hate myself.” Charles said, watching Hunnicutt. “But with Maxwell I hate myself a little bit less.”

* * *

Hunnicutt was helping Maxwell repair the P.A. system when the phone call came in from General Imbrie. Maxwell answered the phone, looking like the prettiest cable girl that Charles had ever seen, even with a cheap cigar held between his teeth. 

“Colonel Potter, General Imbrie on the line!” Maxwell shouted as he entered the office, followed by Hunnicutt and Charles, who watched warily as Colonel Potter took the call. 

“General Imbrie, how can I help you?” Colonel Potter listened. “Well, no we don’t have any news really, our mail hasn’t been coming, so daily reports, requisitions, even our letters to our loved ones are all piling up outside the office waiting for a mailman to come for them.” A pause. “Oh?” A longer pause and Potter’s face split into a grin as he jumped and shouted, “ _Yahoo!_ Thank you, General! We’ll get on that right away!”

“What is it?” Charles asked quickly the moment the phone call was ended.

“Yeah, what a time for me to not listen in on the other line!” Maxwell was practically bouncing with eagerness.

“The war is over! The Korean Armistice Agreement was signed!” Potter shouted at the top of his lungs. “Mark the date, folks! July 27th, 1953! We’re going home!”


	69. Goodbye, Farewell, and Amen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End.

In his dreams, Private Sheridan’s face swam into his view, the man quietly staring at the piano, despondent and wounded and broken in a way that Charles had hoped he could prevent. In the Seoul mental hospital, with nothing to distract himself, the last conversation he had with the dead man played like an endless record echoing around his skull. The hospital was good for that, for making you turn over your failures endlessly.

_”What are we doing here, doctor? I don't want a drink.”_

_“Good.”_ Charles remembered saying, sternly. _”Because you're not gonna get one.”_

_“What the hell is this all about?”_

_“Please, David. I'm sure you've heard of these.”_ The music sheets had long been thrown out, stained with blood, and Charles had wept for the man, for his brilliance, his pain.

_“Pieces for the left hand. Of course I've heard of them. What are you suggesting now? That I make a career out of a few freak pieces written for one hand?”_

_“Not at all. I won't make any pretense about your physical ability to play concerts.”_ He had tried so hard to reassure the young man, had asked Maxwell to go to Seoul specifically to find the pieces in a desperate hope to heal a wound he himself had inflicted on the man’s soul. 

_”Not my point. Are you familiar with the story behind the Ravel?”_ Unraveling, he was spiraling apart in this madhouse, with patients screaming and crying at the slightest sound, battle fatigued and depressed and suicidal and begging for release. How had he come here? He had everything to live for.

 _“It was written for an Austrian concert pianist named Paul Wittgenstein. He lost his right arm during the First World War. He embarked on a long search to commission piano works for the left hand alone. Composer after composer turned him down, but he refused to give up.”_ Charles had not given up on the young man with the wounded soul, if only Sheridan had not given up on himself. 

_“Finally, he found Ravel who, like him, was willing to accept this great challenge.”_ Tears dropped from Charles’ eyes and his fingers rested on the edge of his small cot as he stared at the blank stone wall of the Seoul mental hospital.

 _“Don't you see? Your hand may be stilled, but your gift cannot be silenced if you refuse to let it be. Because the gift does not lie in your hands.”_ Sheridan had gotten ahold of a shaving razor. He had not been on suicide watch, even though Charles knew he should be. How could he have not seen it? Perhaps it was ego that made him hope he had gotten through to the young man.

 _“I have hands, David. Hands that can make a scalpel sing. More than anything in my life, I wanted to play, but I do not have the gift. I can play the notes, but I cannot make the music.”_ His hand fell still, silent, and he watched as the door to his cell, and that was what it was no matter how many times the doctors here called it a room. A room had a lock on the inside. A cell had a lock on the outside.

 _“You've performed Liszt, Rachmaninoff, Chopin. Even if you never do so again, you've already known a joy that I will never know as long as I live. Because the true gift is in your head and in your heart and in your soul. Now, you can shut it off forever, or you can find new ways to share your gift with the world: through the baton, the classroom, the pen.”_ Captain Sherman stepped into the cell, staring at Charles silently, and Charles straightened, banishing the morose thoughts of the man he had been unable to save.

 _“As to these works, they're for you because you and the piano will always be as one.”_

“How are you feeling?” Sherman asked as he raised a brow at Charles.

“Captain Sherman, I would be feeling better if I was speaking to my regular psychiatrist.” Charles refused to look away from the man’s beady, dark eyes. He looked like he wanted to pry back Charles’ skull and poke and prod around at his brain. “Where is Major Freedman?”

“I’ve been assigned this case on behalf of Colonel Baldwin, on behalf of your family. They’re worried about you. They want you to be sent home for treatment.”

Charles saw lightning as he stared at Sherman. “You didn’t believe that Pierce was a homosexual all those years ago and he had a much better act, what makes you think that I am?”

“Your previous history, Major.” Captain Sherman stared at Charles. “Tell me about it.”

“There is nothing to tell,” Charles said simply. “What do you want me to say?”

“I’m sure you know what I want to hear, but what is the truth?”

Charles stared at Sherman before he sighed and leaned back. “I showed signs of deviance at a young age. I do not know what exactly my family saw, but they were not impressed with it.” Charles folded his hands. “They had me treated, and then sent me to an all-boys boarding school in order to supposedly rid me of any limp-wristed femininity. Except they also wished to have me gain an appreciation for art and music and fine culture, which they also believed to be feeding my “disease”.” Charles shrugged and watched Sherman the same way that the man watched him. “So what was I to do?”

“I suppose you had no choice.” Captain Sherman stood and closed his notebook. “I’ll recommend some medication for you, and arrange for some personnel transfers, and then return to your unit with you in order to observe your reintegration with your comrades at arms.”

“Oh, thank you, _Doctor_.” Charles scoffed, laying back on his small cot and listening to the door to his room being locked.

Lightning flashed behind his eyelids, and he tasted the colour yellow on the back of his tongue.

* * *

“Captain Sherman.”

“Major Freedman. This is certainly a surprise.”

Charles couldn’t focus, he knew the voices, knew Freedman, but everything felt so _heavy_ , as if he was wrapped in layers upon layers of goose down comforters. He was swimming through molasses. He couldn’t breathe properly, and his heart felt as if it had slowed to a point where it was barely beating. He might as well have not been alive at all for how little he felt as he was led through the compound. He felt familiar boards beneath his feet but couldn’t place himself. 

“Major!” Maxwell’s voice called, and Charles lifted his head slowly, turned to look for his love. The familiar face swam into his vision, and Charles reached out, feeling clumsy as he gripped the younger man’s shoulder.

“Max.” He murmured, and suddenly those dark eyes were filled with rage. 

“What did you _do_ to him?” Maxwell shouted at Sherman, and Charles felt lightning blaze across his brain, his vision whiting out as he blinked and shuddered and gripped Maxwell tighter.

“I’d like to know that too, Sherman.” Freedman’s voice called from the aether, and Charles struggled to turn his head, to vocalize, to do anything but _exist_. A lobotomy would have been a mercy, at least he wouldn’t have been _able_ to properly think. 

“Winchester, you’re back.” Potter’s voice joined the veritable cacophony of sounds that echoed and rolled around Charles’ skull, ricocheting like marbles in a coffee can. “What in the blue blazes happened to you?”

Charles opened his mouth and tried to speak, tried to find the energy. “I don’t…” He started over. “I… Don’t have the bottle.”

“A mixture of medication, Colonel. Carefully prescribed. He’ll be his usual self once he gets used to the dosage.”

“ _Captain_ , and I use that title temporarily, when I told your commanding officer that I wanted my surgeon back, I wanted him back in a state that would allow him to perform his primary function here.” Potter’s voice boiled and bubbled with rage. “Namely, the ability to perform _surgery_.”

“Come on, Major.” Freedman’s voice was quiet, gentle, and Charles could feel his firm grip on his biceps, Maxwell gripping his opposite hand, and the two of them leading him away.

“Where should we take him, Major Freedman?” Maxwell asked.

“Your tent?”

Charles felt his heart rake spike and lightning flashed across his vision, blinding him, making him stumble and double over as he clutched his head.

“The O Club is closer, and empty right now.” Max guided Charles and Freedman through the compound and when they were there he sat Charles next to the door at the upright piano. “There we go, Charles.” Max whispered softly, his fingers stroking over Charles’ wrist. “Things’ll be okay. I promise.”

Charles stared at the piano keys, focused on them, recited quietly the letters, whether they were flats or sharps, and then placed his hand on the keys. A song came to mind, one of Maxwell’s favourites. 

He played the notes slowly, his voice sluggish as well as he spoke the lyrics, unable to even think of singing them. “It was down by old Joe's… barroom… on the corner of the square… They were serving drinks… as usual… and the usual… crowd was there… On my left stood Big Joe McKennedy… and his eyes were bloodshot… red… And he turned his face to the people… these were the very words he said…”

Maxwell’s fingers squeezed Charles’ wrist and his own voice took over the song. _“I was down to St. James infirmary, I saw my baby there… She was stretched out on a long white table…”_

Charles cut in, speaking softly as he played. “So sweet… So cool… And so fair…”

 _“Let her go, let her go, God bless her…”_ Maxwell sang softly. _“Wherever she may be… She may search this whole wide world over…”_

“Never find a chump like me,” Charles could feel the drugs pulsing through his bloodstream, making his world hazy, but he could hear Maxwell, knew he was close, could focus on the music he had long ago memorized, using the slow beat of his heart as a metronome. _“When I die please… bury me… in my high top Stetson hat… Put a twenty dollar gold piece… on my watch chain… The gang'll know… I died standing pat.”_

 _“I want six crapshooters to be my pallbearers… Three pretty women to sing a song… Stick a jazz band on my hearse wagon,”_ Maxwell rested his head on Charles’ shoulder as he sang counterpoint to Charles when the man’s half-singing became too strained.

_“Raise hell as I… stroll along…”_

_“Let her go, let her go… God bless her.. Wherever she may be she may search this whole wide world over,”_ Maxwell kissed Charles’ cheek and a new type of lightning lit up his skin, Charles stopping his song, unable to finish the notes as he cupped Maxwell’s cheek, held him close. 

Tears rolled down his face as he thought of his ordeal. Of Sheridan. Of his parents. Of psychiatrists. Of citrine fluid pulsing in his veins. Of streaks of lightning crackling across his brain. Of little yellow and white pills that he had choked down if only so he could return to the 4077th, to return to Maxwell.

“You’re safe now, Major.” Maxwell whispered. “I gotcha, you’re safe now.”

* * *

Charles spent two weeks sweating through withdrawal from a drug that he hated and never wished to be subjected to again.

The worst of it was the vomiting, always the vomiting. He knelt in the compound, unable to make the race to the latrine or the showers, Maxwell and Major Freedman and Hunnicutt all knelt beside him, trying to help him up as he sobbed and choked and vomit some more.

“Just, please, make it stop,” His voice was hoarse and raw. Maxwell gently held him and Charles could feel the young man’s on sobs against his back. “Anything, give me more of that awful concoction, just make it stop.” He begged, his eyes brimming with tears as he choked on nothing but bile. He had been unable to eat, unable to swallow anything, not even the private stash of food that he and Maxwell had kept in his footlocker for those days where the mess tent couldn’t even be glanced at or smelled, much less dined in. 

“Please,” He sobbed, his fingers digging gouges in the dirt of the compound. “Please, just kill me. Just kill me. Take me to the minefield and let me walk.”

“We won’t do that, Charles.” Hunnicutt’s voice said softly. “You’re going to be okay.”

“Lies.” Charles choked. “Awful, terrible lies.”

Lights lit up the compound as a jeep approached, screaming to a halt when Freedman stood and waved his arms, shouting for the driver to watch out. 

“What is this?” A familiar, disgusted voice called and Charles looked up, choking on bile as it burned his raw throat. Colonel Baldwin stepped out of the jeep and his driver, an M.P., followed, holding his rifle. “Have you no dignity, Winchester?”

“I could ask you the same, Baldwin.” Charles choked, tears tracking down his face from how much he had thrown up. 

“I thought I made it clear that this man was to be kept at the hospital in Seoul?” Baldwin said with a sneer. “He is very clearly unwell.”

“Yes, but it is a physical illness that he suffers from right now,” Major Freedman said, Hunnicutt standing to race to Potter’s tent as the psychiatrist faced down the Colonel. “My opinion as a doctor says that he should be here, where they treat physical illnesses, not in Seoul branch of Bellvue where they treat mental ones.”

Maxwell wrapped his arm around Charles’ waist, his wiry strength forcing the man to follow as Maxwell dragged him to his feet. 

“Where do you think you’re going, Corporal?” Baldwin snapped, and Charles glared at the man as Maxwell froze.

“Getting the Major to bed, Colonel, sir.” Maxwell said meekly, gripping Charles tightly, protectively.

“Look, Colonel, we both know that this is torture.” Major Freedman gestured to Charles’ state. “Sending him to Seoul would only prolong his suffering. Why not just hand him a blue discharge?”

“Because his family does not want a disgrace to come home at the end of this police action.” Baldwin snapped. “I would have thought some time here in Korea would make him a real man, but obviously I was wrong.”

Charles froze, staring at Baldwin, before a laugh bubbled up. It was hysterical, stuttering past his lips, and he choked on some more bile before he spoke. “They _paid_ you, didn’t they?” Charles asked and Baldwin froze. “To send me here. To send me to Seoul when that didn’t work.”

Potter and Hunnicutt returned as Charles laughed even harder, Baldwin’s face turning red. “Shut up, Winchester, you’re damn lucky that your parents reminded me of you during that fact finding tour, or else I would have forgotten you entirely, just like I forgot your face!” Baldwin snapped. “You should be _grateful_ , Winchester.”

“For _what_?” Charles asked with a snarl.

“They’re willing to ignore this, all of this, and I’m willing to send you home, on one condition.”

“Name it,” Maxwell said, before Charles could tell the man to go to hell. “Colonel Baldwin, name it and I’ll get him to do it.”

Baldwin smirked and stared down at Max. “You send your Corporal home to that waste of a town in Ohio, he doesn’t return with you to the airport in Boston, and they’ll forget all of this Korean love affair of yours.”

Charles opened his mouth, but he was not fast enough.

“I’ll do it.” Maxwell said softly. “They won’t see me in that airport in Boston. I’ll go to Toledo.”

* * *

“You _can’t_.” Charles said as Maxwell packed his soft, delicate things. Half of the Klinger Collection had been given away, reduced only to the paper patterns and notes in Maxwell’s well worn diary, the other half was now neatly packed as Charles watched, struggling to articulate the sheer heartbreak.

“I know what I’m doing, Major.” Maxwell said with a smile as he looked up at Charles. “I promise. You just gotta trust me.”

Charles could feel his heart cracking further, could feel every beat of it shattering it just a bit more. He fell to his knees before Maxwell, clutched at his waist, his skirt. “Darling, _please_.” He choked, staring at Maxwell with tears running down his cheeks. “Please, Maxwell, I cannot part with you. I _can’t_.”

“I promise you’ll understand everything soon.” Maxwell cupped Charles’ face, pressing their foreheads together as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Come here, baby, sit beside me.”

Charles obeyed, unable to do much else, and as he did so Maxwell kissed him, calloused fingers smoothing over Charles’ jaw, guiding him wordlessly as he had so often before. 

“Charles,” Maxwell whispered, breathless and delighted as Charles’ broad hands gripped at his waist, drew him desperately closer. “I can’t tell you what I’m going to do. You’ll give it away.”

“Please, tell me anyway.” Charles sobbed, his lips barely parted from Maxwell’s as he stared at the younger man. “Please, I beg of you.”

Maxwell shushed Charles gently, pushing him to lay back on the bed. 

His dress was blush pink, tailored close to Maxwell’s skin, the layers of chiffon glittering in champagne and rose colours about the two of them. As Maxwell leaned closer, kissing Charles as he practically laid down on the man’s chest. Charles’ arms held tight about his waist.

“Darling, Maxwell,” Charles clutched at him like a drowning man to a life preserver. “Maxie, please.”

“Shh,” Max kissed him softly, gently. “If your parents need to see you at that airport alone, if they need to see my name nowhere on that passenger list, then we can do that.” He smiled down at Charles, adjusting his skirts, practically swimming in the sea of delicate fabric before he rested his hand on the fastening’s of Charles’ civilian trousers. “We still have tonight. One last good memory for Korea.”

Charles would hold onto this one memory for the rest of his lifetime if he had to. Laying with Maxwell beside him, the two of them exchanging lazy kisses as Maxwell’s hands slid beneath his clothing. Skin touched skin, causing lightning to dance behind Charles’ eyes as he clutched at his husband. He tried to lose himself in the touches that they shared. Tried to stave off the horrible thoughts and words that Captain Sherman and a parade of previous psychiatrists had carved into the vulnerable tissues of his brain. 

“Look at me, Charles.” Maxwell whispered, and he was helpless to obey, those dark eyes fixed on his own. “I love you.” Max whispered. “More than anything.”

“I love you too, Max, more than life itself.”

* * *

Rizzo approached Charles and the other officers, holding his clipboard aloft, “Excuse me, Major. I got some transportation for you and your Corporal, but it ain't exactly a sedan.”

Charles sighed as he watched the Swamp become disassembled for the last time. He was holding the wooden arrow that had once pointed to Boston, everyone else having taken their hometowns as well. Hunnicutt held San Francisco, and Maxwell held Toledo. “As long as it's got wheels.” Charles told Rizzo absently.

“Oh, what a sport.” Rizzo said as he saluted and then turned to his motor pool. It had been a long time coming. A month since Charles had returned, two weeks since he had been told by Colonel Baldwin his parents’ conditions of his return to Boston. A day since Maxwell had held him for what might have been the last time. Charles thought of Henry Blake, returning to Bloomington, only for his plane to be shot down over the sea of Japan. He thought of Maxwell arriving in Toledo, expecting Charles to call him as he had promised, only for that call to never arrive.

“So long, Major.” Potter said with a smile, watching the way Maxwell squeezed Charles’ arm tightly. “You can be proud of the work you've done here. You're a fine surgeon.”

“Well, thank you, sir. As are you.” Charles held out his hand to Potter, shook it, and paused before he spoke, sincere and soft. “Shortly, I will be in a position of authority over other surgeons, and I hope I will be guided by the memory of your wisdom and your gentle good humor.”

Potter smiled at him and Charles felt warmed by the approval in the man’s eyes. “Well, that's very kind of you, Charles.” He looked at Maxwell, who smiled back at him and hugged the Colonel tightly, tucking his face against Potter’s neck as he did so. “Goodbye, Klinger. You’re like a son to me. I’m glad for everything you ever did for me.”

“I’m only sorry you didn’t get to walk me down the aisle, Colonel Potter.” Maxwell smiled at the older man. “I’ll write you.”

“I look forward to it.” Potter wiped a tear from beneath Maxwell’s eye. “Don’t go ruining your mascara, Max.”

Charles looked at Hunnicutt, who smiled, a bit more apologetically than Potter’s own warm expression. He approached the other man and held out his hand, Hunnicutt accepting the shake as he spoke, “I'm sure you've got an even bigger compliment for me, Charles, but let's not get gooey.”

Charles smiled back at the man, genuine despite the mild twinge of annoyance he felt towards the man. It was more a habituatl emotion, and it even gave him comfort to know that Hunnicutt would remain largely unchanged. “I want to thank you, Hunnicutt. You have made me realize what going home is all about.”

“You take care, Hunnicutt,” Maxwell smiled. “Peg and Erin are gonna need you for much longer than the two years we needed you.”

Hunnicutt smiled at Maxwell and Charles before he said, “I’m sorry for all the times I gave you two a hard time. I hope… I hope that you two are very happy.”

Charles felt an ache in his chest, but nodded and smiled at the other surgeon. The group turned at the sound of a large engine rumbling, coming closer from the motor pool, the crunch of wheels on dirt and debris. Charles couldn’t help a brief, surprised laugh as he stared at Rizzo. the man waving from the drier’s seat of the 4077th’s garbage truck.

“Major, I hope you don't mind ridin' in a garbage truck, but it's the last vehicle I got.” Rizzo called, removing his cheap cigar from his mouth as he gestured to the lumbering behemoth of a vehicle.

Charles sighed, and offered his arm to Maxwell who took it and smiled up at him, “Not at all. What better way to leave a garbage dump?”

“Goodbye, 4077th,” Maxwell said as he looked at the empty compound, letting out a shuddering breath before he turned away, headed to the passenger side of the truck. 

Charles guided Maxwell to the passenger’s seat, only for the both of them to hesitate when Rizzo warned, quickly at the sight of Maxwell’s shoes, “Don't slip. There's gunk on these runnin' boards.”

They climbed in with minimal transference of “gunk” and settled in, gripping at the dash and the door of the truck as it jolted and rumbled from the compound, down the hill, and around the bend towards the Kimpo airport. Maxwell squeezed Charles’ hand tightly, and the two of them exchanged a quiet smile. Charles took a deep breath and gave Maxwell a soft kiss as they rode along, thinking of their flights, how the hours that separated them were made especially to torment Charles. But Maxwell had said that everything would be fine. 

Father Mulcahy was the man who made leaps of faith. He was the man who trusted that things would always turn out for the best. Charles was not used to such leaps.

But for Maxwell, he was sure he could fly if the young man told him to. 

So for him, he would make the leap, and for the first time in his life truly believe that it would turn out alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the end of the series chapters. The final chapter will be an epilogue.


	70. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Maxwell go to a symphony.

Charles limped through the marble hall of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, the end of his cane clicking delicately upon the marble, the sound muffled by the sounds of the rich and stately numbers that flooded the foyer, idly making their ways to be seated for the performance. A few of the murmurs fell silent and then were followed by a wave of applause as Charles’ friends and family recognized him, noticed that he had returned, a wounded veteran of the Korean war. 

“Charles, come here.” Charles Emerson Winchester II called for his son, and Charles came, obedient and quiet, solemn as he approached his father and mother. “Here, some champagne.”

“No, thank you,” Charles gave a tight smile. “I found that I drank too much in Korea. Something that I feel must be corrected now that I am to be expected to perform surgery, ah, in a civilized world.”

“Of course, of course.” Charles’ father said with a proud smile. The surgeon found himself dragged into the typical rounds of the well-to-do, shaking hands and making promises to go out for lunches, dinners, bridge games, water polo and a variety of other mundane entertainments. He brushed off several women that his father and mother introduced him to, and gently dismissed the few that he met that he knew to merely trying to be polite. 

He smoked good cigars and waited, glancing at his watch at every chance he could, feeling his leg burn with pain as he kept standing well beyond the time recommended by Colonel Potter when he had called the man in Hannibal, MO. He was complimented on his looks, how the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes made him seem more dignified. How he had lost a significant amount of weight and it showed, though the softness in his middle he was sure would never truly go away. They congratulated him on his rank, on his success in the 4077th when he confided their survival rate of 98%. They complimented the cut of his custom tuxedo, and asked how much money he spent on it and the fine cologne dabbed at his collar. 

“Charles here was the toast of the East Asian Theater, weren’t you, son?”

“As much as anyone could be.” Charles said simply. “Everything ran together after some time. Names, ranks, faces. Very little stood out.”

“Are you saying that I didn’t stand out, Charles?” A familiar, lilting voice asked and Charles turned quickly, his eyes lighting up as he stared at the sight before him.

Maxwell stood in the white lace of his wedding gown, kept whole and unsullied by some miracle. He wore heels made of golden satin and his hair was perfectly curled, diamond earrings dangling from his ears, not nearly as dazzling as his smile. For a moment he truly looked as if he had stepped out of the pages of a fairy tale. Cinderella with her slippers pure as gold, arriving at the ball, drawing the eyes of all who beheld her with her air of queenly grace.

“You certainly did, Corporal, at every opportunity.” Charles’ family and colleagues - and yes even some of his old friends - were all staring at the pair, startled by Charles’ easy acceptance of a man dressed in a wedding gown. “Father, mother, this is Maxwell Q. E. W. Klinger.”

“Q. E. W.? Is that some… Bedouin tradition?” Mr. Winchester asked with a raised brow, his wife looking as if she had swallowed an entire lemon’s worth of juice without an ounce of sugar.

Maxwell laughed at that, his eye caught sight of a box of cigars being passed around. He slipped one from the box and looked up at Charles expectantly, the man immediately pulling a book of matches to light the cigar. Max knew he had a captive audience, waiting red-faced and impatient for an explanation. He took a puff then said, “Well, Maxwell al-Qurhah Emerson Winchester Klinger just doesn’t roll off the tongue, doncha think?” Maxwell asked with a sharp smile at the man. Charles smiled as he held out his arm to Maxwell, and let the younger man cling to his bicep.

“What, pray tell, are you saying?” Mrs. Winchester demanded with a scowl, seeing the underhanded insult for what it was.

“Oh, well, I was always taught that things that were thrown away were free range for anyone who wanted to take them.” Maxwell’s left hand rubbed over Charles’ arm, his wedding and engagement rings gleaming in the bright golden light of the foyer. His right hand lifted his cigar to his mouth and he spoke around it, holding it between his teeth. “I read plenty of your letters to Charles. You got a slew of cousins and two nephews out of the army with 4-F stamped on their chests, but you left your own son behind?” He tilted his head to look up at Charles, his dark gaze bold and filled with Magpie-like delight. “So I decided I wanted to keep him.”

“And keep me you did.” Charles gestured for a staff member to bring him an ash tray and it appeared in his hand, held out for Maxwell to lightly tap ash from the end of his cigar.

“You _said_ -” Mr. Winchester hissed, grabbing at Charles’ sleeve.

“I said that I would arrive at the Boston airport alone. I did not plan on remaining alone. Maxwell has spent the last few weeks visiting friends in Toledo, his family in Montana. I certainly couldn’t begrudge him that.” Charles explained, looking the precise part of doting husband reunited with adoring wife.

“Just got off the train an hour ago,” Maxwell grinned and leaned into Charles’ side. “Wanted to freshen up before the symphony.”

“Speaking of,” Charles gestured and, cane in one hand and Maxwell held close to his side with the other arm, walked up the stairs, struggling as his leg burned, but managing the flight through sheer pride. “We have a private box, no use in having your first experience at the symphony to be anything less than perfect.”

“Always the gentleman,” Maxwell smiled, looking up at Charles and stealing a kiss from the man as they walked. 

When they got to the Winchester box, Charles sat down, grunting in pain as he stretched his leg out, Maxwell giving him a concerned look. 

“I told you we should have waited. You’re not fully healed.”

“Consider it a price of peace of mind.” Charles said simply. “At least this way everyone can see where your proper place is, and that I will not have anyone needling me otherwise.”

“I’m used to needles, I used to work at a M*A*S*H*, you know.” Maxwell smiled as he sat beside Charles, his fingers lacing with the other man’s firmly, his free hand stubbing out the end of his cigar before he placed it carefully aside. “Hypodermics, sutures with silk on them, and darning needles aplenty.”

“Still doesn’t mean you should have to deal with snide remarks.”

Maxwell smiled at Charles, fond and gentle. “You know, eventually, you’re going to need to let me help you fight these sorts of battles.” He leaned in before Charles could argue, stealing a soft kiss that Charles deepened, his broad palm cupping Maxwell’s jaw softly, breathing in the scent of the fine cigar and Maxwell’s own perfume.

“Charles, certainly you can restrain yourself for the course of the symphony performance?”

The two broke apart and Max turned, raising a brow at Mr. And Mrs. Winchester. “Surprised you two can keep your hands to yourselves. But maybe you’ve just forgotten what its like to be in love.” He pointedly eyed the clear distance between the two, at the way they kept nearly a full seat’s worth of space between their own chairs in the private box. The lights dimmed and their voices all lowered as music began to play.

“You think you know this world but you _don’t_. You can’t even walk the streets of Beacon Hill without getting arrested.”

“I think you’ll find that I can. I made friends with a couple of them when I introduced myself as a Winchester.” Max grinned. “Showed them my identification and everything. Isn’t it swell how easy it is to change your name in this country?”

“Its abhorrent.” Mrs. Winchester snapped. “In our ancestral home-”

“Which grandmother left to me when she passed.” Charles interjected quietly. 

“Some street urchin sleeping under her roof would make her roll in her grave!”

“Not just anywhere under her roof, I’m in the master bedroom as well.” Max smirked. “Gonna redecorate too, get rid of all those drab colours, breathe a little life.”

“I cannot believe that this is how the Winchester line ends,” Mr. Winchester growled, glaring at Charles. 

“Don’t worry, I plan on getting a kitten soon,” Max said simply. “I already have a name picked out and everything. How does Charles Emerson Winchester IV sound? We’d call him Fourth just for short.”

“You _mock_ us.” Mrs. Winchester tried very hard not to raise her voice.

Maxwell leaned in close, smiling at the two as sweetly as he could. “Lady, I grew up in the streets of Toledo. I learned how to throw a punch before I learned my alphabet. I was on guard duty half my nights in Korea. I assisted your son in operations while we had guns held to our heads and bombs dropped all around us. You think you can scare me?” He leaned back into his chair, and Charles had never felt so proud of him, beaming down at Maxwell as the young man laced his left hand with Charles’ right. “You wanna fight a war of tea sandwiches and symphonies and bridge games? Fine. But my marriage already survived one war. Don’t go thinking it won’t survive this one.”

The group fell into silence as they turned to watch the movements of the conductor, the musicians, Charles clutching a Maxwell’s hand for nearly an hour before he turned his gaze to the young man, watching the dimmed lights glitter and flash in his eyes. 

“You’re beautiful when you’re fighting for something, Maxwell.”

The younger man looked up at Charles and smiled. “Your love makes me beautiful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to apologize for the shortness of this chapter. I had planned to write something else entirely, but this just seemed right. I'd like to thank everyone for their comments and dedication and excitement for this fic and I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!


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